The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger
by Ardoa88
Summary: While Will and co. are off having grand adventures, Gilan is reassigned to his home Fiefdom of Caraway. But life isn't as laid back as it would seem, the northern country Picta is stirring up trouble, and Gilan is sent to go aid Norgate Fief. Return to Araluen with a host of characters old and new, and enjoy a classic adventure in a wondrous world. (Set after book 6)
1. The Wandering Minstrel

_**Hello readers! Before I beg**_ _ **in I shall include all disclaimers here: I am simply borrowing many of the locations, characters, and other aspects of the book series. A few ideas are my own, but many evolved from the ideas of others.**_

 _ **with that out of the way- thank you in advance! I welcome any and all comments so please review to your hearts content. If you finish this chapter please let me know what you thought- good or bad or undecided. I look forward to reading them ^_^ I don't have a scheduled plan for updates, but I will do my best to post weekly. Believe it or not I wrote this out of boredom so this is all I've got so far. Can't wait to see where it goes ;)**_

 ** _And now, without further ado, I emplore you to enjoy Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger._**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**

* * *

Winters were brutal in Caraway Fief. Unlike the small smattering of snowfall Castle Araluen received in the cold season, the various structures in the North-western Fief were bed down under mounds of the fine white powder. It was a wonder how the short, stocky buildings didn't cave in under the stress. Then again, the Fiefdom _had_ been constructed with the mindset to withstand the Stormwhite's raging summer gales. Icicles hung from the rooftops and a steady chilling wind ensured that the inhabitants of the neighboring towns rarely emerged from their abodes without at least a half-dozen layers of furs on.

Yes, winters were harsh in Caraway Fief.

Nevertheless, it's occupants appeared as resilient as it's buildings; there was no shortage of bustle within the town walls as the sun rose high. The fishmongers stall was especially busy, selling mackerel, carp, tilapia and more to the locals. In the winter, game became scarce in the surrounding countryside, and oversea trade slowed to a crawl as rivers began to freeze over. During the peak of the cold season, the paths leading into town were made practically inaccessible by the weather: so it was no surprise that the local taproom was host to it's usual customers that evening while a snowstorm raged outside.

That is, until the door opened to admit a stranger clad in a thick brown cloak.

As the newcomer shut the door- cutting off the blast of frigid night air that had snaked in- he dusted some snow off of his shoulders before pulling the hood of his cloak down. The man sprouted a splendidly messy beard to compliment an equally ragged head of tawny brown hair. His nose was pink tipped and his eyes were red rimmed and weary from the storm. Although the newcomer held the guise of a famished and fatigued beggar, the glimmer in his eyes would suggest differently.

The man's shamrock green gaze took in the blazing fire that roared in the fireplace and the wary looks of the taprooms occupants as he hung up his cloak on the coat rack. As if oblivious to their animosity, the young man strode to the bar and plopped down on one of the stools with a relieved sigh. Strapped to his back was a strange, club-shaped package wrapped in leather, and a tiny, handheld crossbow hung at his waist.

Making a show of inspecting the room and it's silence, the man eventually looked back at the bartender, smiling easily as he said, "Well now, either you don't get many new faces nowadays or," the man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "the ale here is so fantastic they're shocked I'd have the nerve to take it from them."

There was a pause of silence before the room erupted into jovial hoots, and before long the regular customers had gone back to their menial conversations.

The bartender- an older gentleman with calloused hands and a warm smile-filled a mug and placed it before the visitor with a chuckle, "Best brew in town." He said.

" _Only_ brew in town, y'mean." One of the patrons remarked, earning another round of laughter.

The bartender rolled his eyes, "Aye, Steven but that's never stopped yeh from drinkin' me dry."

The visitor's eyebrows rose questioningly, "Only? As in, one bar for the entire town? I've seen many strange things but nothing as absurd as a beer monopoly. _One bar_?" The bewilderment in the man's voice had an amused ring to it as he sipped the drink.

"Aye, well Hawkentown is a new addition to Caraway Fief. So's I haven't had much competition yet- not that I mind O'course."

"Of course." The visitor echoed with a nod.

"So where is it you hail from, friend?"

"Oh here and there," the man answered vaguely, "never stay long in one place, to tell you the truth."

The bartender frowned curiously, "A traveler, eh?"

"Oh I travel," the newcomer got a faraway look in his eye, "I've traversed mountains as big as Giants, crossed plains that stretch farther than the endless sea, and have been witness to more, much much more, than you could even fathom, my friend."

Now the bartender was no stranger to braggarts and boasters, many of whom were young trainees from the battleschool just up the way. But the newcomer spoke with an air about him that led the bartender to believe the stranger. "And does this well-travelled man have a name?" He prompted.

The question seemed to bring the man back to the present as he smiled, "Of course, where have my manners forsaken me?" He stuck out a hand, "Ebrommius Garrik, entertainer of men and frequenter of fine establishments such as your own."

The bartender shook the offered hand, struggling to pronounce the odd name "A pleasure, Ehbron-ome-"

With a light laugh, the man waved aside his struggle, "Folks call me Brom."

The bartender began wiping down some mugs as another bout of ale was distributed, "You say you're an entertainer?"

"Entertainer _of men_." Brom corrected, "I've learned that the ladies enjoy less of my wit than the menfolk." He flashed that easy smile again in a lighthearted manner, showing he was jesting, "But yes, by profession I am a wandering minstrel, a jongleur, a fool- as some would say."

The patron from earlier, Steven, overheard the declaration and turned, clapping Brom on the back. "Well then how abouts a song? Lord knows entertainment is a rarity in these parts." He admitted loudly.

There was a chorus of 'hear hear's and 'ditto's around the room as the locals turned and waited expectantly.

Brom held up his hands, "My friends, it has been a long day of travel and I am all but exhausted. However-" he continued, at the behest of the disappointed faces, "if it will please you I shall take up my lute for one quick hymn."

At the encouragement of the patrons, Brom carefully unwrapped his instrument, wasting a few minutes to tune the chords. The minstrel then cleared his throat and launched into song:

 _"O- What'll we do with a drunken sailor,_

 _What'll we do with a drunken sailor,_

 _What'll we do with a drunken sailor,_

 _Earl-aye in the morning?"_

Brom's voice was deep and sonorous as it rang around the room, the licks strung from the lute providing the perfect musical accompaniment to his tale. It was a well known song and the whole taproom joined in on the chorus, their muddled, off-key tones full of merriment:

 _"Way hay and up she rises,_

 _Way hay and up she rises,_

 _Way hay and up she rises,_

 _Earl-aye in the mornin'."_

Brom picked up the next verse with a solid thrum:

 _"Put him in bed with the captain's daughter,_

 _Put him in bed with the captain's daughter,_

 _Put him in bed with the captain's daughter,_

 _Earl-aye in the morning."_

The other customers joined in once more and the bar quickly became the most boisterous building in Hawkentown. The three other verses passed all too quickly and the chantry ended with one last thrum of the strings. At it's conclusion the bar patrons cheered and clapped, as if it was the best song they'd heard all season- which, to be fair, it probably was. Around the taproom there were calls for an encore but Brom shook his head.

"My friends you flatter me, but alas, my voice is shot from the cold. That song wouldn't have sounded as good as it did had you not done half the work for me." The occupants chuckled and Brom continued, "Tomorrow is another day, my friends. And I look forwards to spending it here in this fine establishment."

As Brom moved to pack up his instrument he noticed a handful of coins scattered in the bottom of the casing. Perhaps sparring a few days in Hawkentown would prove worthwhile, especially since the minstrel's purse was uncharacteristically empty as of late. With a small smile he pocketed the coins, dropping a few on the counter as payment as the bar returned to its usual drunken manner.

Brom took a long swig from his mug. "So," he said, "I've heard tell there's been some skirmishes up north. Trouble with the Pictians."

The bartender shrugged. "There's trouble afoot, aye. Though with bandits or the Picta's I couldn't say. The Battlemaster would know more about it than a lowly barkeep such as meself. 'E's the one sending troops and supplies up to Norgate." He looked up curiously, "Why the interest?"

Brom hid his thoughtful expression with a shrug of his own, "No special interest really, more of a business trip. Part of my talents lie in weaving heroic tales of bravery and courage and sacrifice." Brom took a long drink, "And crafting them based on firsthand experience proves most effective."

The bartender nodded knowingly, moving to open another barrel. At his absence, the minstrel fingered a thin silver band on his left index finger: It was embroidered with an intricate Celtic knot that culminated at a small leaf print.

"The Battlemaster, eh..."

* * *

The minstrel wasn't the only new arrival in Caraway Fief that evening. Sauntering up the snowy pass with the ease of remembrance was a shaggy, barrel-chested pony. It's rider wore a dark dappled cloak that was much too thin for the frigid temperatures. Horse and rider stopped at the crest of the road, overlooking the looming Caraway castle with it's mighty stone walls and the scattered lights from the surrounding villages.

The horse looked back at it's rider as if to ask, _Well? Are we going in or not?_

With a smile, the man seated astride the horse leaned over to pat it's neck. "Sorry Blaize," he said, "I was lost in reminiscence is all."

The horse snorted and shook snow from its mane, _Then find yourself quickly, it's cold._

The man laughed softly, "That it is my friend, that it is." With those words horse and rider sauntered towards the gates.

* * *

 ** _Fin! Thanks for reading this far :D please, again, leave your comments- I value each and every one; and I plan to respond to any questions/requests you leave in the next chapter so let me know what you thought of chapter 1._**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	2. The Ranger Returns

_**Hello readers! Welcome to Chapter 2 of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger. I know I said my updates would be weekly but I had a lot of spare time t**_ _ **oday so I wrote- and apparently finished- Chapter 2. So, as opposed to a set release for new chapters, I've decided to update whenever I feel the next chapter is rea**_ _ **dy, with a max wait of a week in between Chapters.**_

 _ **also, as you may have noticed, this fanfic is not heavily reliant on cannon characters but rather focuses on OC's. This is a personal preference because I like- no, LOVE reading fanfics that don't require one to stay up to date with the latest books/movies/shows. I want my readers to jump into the story with no prior knowledge of the RA series and still be able to enjoy the fanfic.**_

 _ **that being said, this next chapter is based on cannon characters (but ones who were barely de**_ _ **veloped in the books: really they were only mentioned in name so I pray I captured their essence ;)**_

 ** _Shoutout to Duckreb: thanks for being the first follower of this fanfic. Your support means so much to me. This chapter's for you, pal. :)_**

 ** _Thank you for reading! Again I value and look forward to reading your reviews. Enjoy!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**

* * *

Baron Fergus was chest deep in paperwork when there was a hard rasp at the door. He set down his quill with a sigh, massaging his cramped hand. Fergus glanced out the window, surprised at how late it'd gotten. Through the whirl of the snowstorm, he could just make out the outlines of Morrotown, Winterhaven Village, and the newer addition of Hawkentown in the distance. A smattering of lights broke the darkness from various homes and pubs and other buildings.

The door rasped again, louder this time.

"Yes yes, I hear you." Fergus muttered. "Enter."

The solid oak door opened and the steward stepped across the threshold, a small stack of papers clutched in his hands. At the sight of them Baron Fergus groaned, rubbing his eyes and waving dismissively towards the surrounding mounds.

"Put them with the rest Martin." He said wearily.

Wordlessly, Martin nodded, adding his small burden to the growing pile before exiting with a slight bow. As the door clicked shut, the Baron picked up the quill once more and began reading the next document.

 _Farmer's Training Initiative_

 _Whereas the instruction of farmhands in the village of Winterhaven to promote the safety of workers and whereas a culmination of thirteen incidents involving improper plow management in recent months has transpired. We of the Farmers Union hereby propose a mandatory training regimen of all equipment as conducted and overseen by-_

The Baron's reading was interrupted by another trio of knocks on the office door. With an angry huff, Fergus slammed down the doctrine, causing a dozen or so precariously balanced documents to fall off the corner of his desk and flutter to the floor.

With a curse and a scowl the Baron stood to pick them up as the knocks resumed.

"What _now_?" He roared.

Apparently, whoever was outside decided the bellow was permission enough to enter, the door swinging wide to reveal a tall, toned man with wisps of silver in his rustic bronze hair. The clean shaven man held two steaming mugs in his hands and an amused expression played across his face at the sight of the Baron's office in such a sorry state.

Holding out one of the mugs he said cheerily, "Coffee, my lord?"

"Sir David," the Baron sat back down heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Of course, please come in."

The Battlemaster closed the door and wove his way to the desk, careful not to tread over the fallen sheets. He placed the mug down and moved towards the hearth as Fergus nodded in thanks.

After a long sip he said, "My apologies, Sir David. I had feared it was Martin bringing me more desk work."

"Truthfully, my lord, after that admittance, Martin would be too busy quaking in his boots to enter your chambers." The Battlemaster said with a grin.

The Baron looked back down at the mess and decided to take a break, reclining in the cushioned chair, "I seemed to have missed the memo declaring that a Baron's duties involved scribes work."

"I believe the notice is at the bottom of that pile, my lord." Sir David replied stoically, gesturing to one of the mounds, "Paperwork tends to pile up while the Baron is on leave for two weeks."

"On leave?" With a glare, Fergus drained the rest of his cup, sifting through the papers for something he could get done quickly. "More like bedridden with fever. Regardless I have much to get through, thank you for the coffee, Sir David."

When the Battlemaster remained where he was after the dismissal, the Baron looked up with a frown, "Something on your mind?"

With a rueful grin, the knight produced a letter, and the Baron rolled his eyes, "So you _were_ bringing me paperwork."

"It's a notice from Norgate, requesting more supplies, and troops if we can spare any."

"Well we can't," Fergus reached for the letter, tearing it open, "As you well know we've sent all but the trainees for relief." His eyes skimmed the letter.

"Agreed, my lord," Battlemaster David sipped his coffee, "which is why I've already sent a letter to Castle Araluen requesting reinforcements."

Dropping the letter on the table Baron Fergus did the calculations, "It'll take at least a month by the time they round up troops and supply them, and travel across the north plains- which are no doubt snowed in."

The two men lapsed into a sullen silence, both aware of the dangers posed with the prospect of losing Norgate Fief. The northernmost castle was the one stronghold that could successfully deter an invasion by the Picta and Scotti tribes. If Norgate fell, Araluen wouldn't be far behind. Outside the storm howled and surged.

With a heavy exhale, Fergus reclaimed the quill, bending over a blank paper, "Lord Orman will just have to hold out for now. I'll get a caravan prepped to leave with supplies." He said resignedly. "Maybe we-"

A third round of thumps drew their attention to the door. Fergus shook his head and gestured for Sir David to answer it, not ready to receive another round of documents.

"Martin, if there's-" the Battlemaster stopped mid sentence in surprise.

The Baron peered around Sir David to see a younger version of the Battlemaster standing in the doorway, clad in a dappled green and grey cloak with a longbow strung over his shoulder.

"Gilan!" Fergus exclaimed with a smile, "Come in, come in."

The young ranger obliged, glancing around the room quickly before refocusing on the imposing man behind the table.

"Baron Fergus, you're looking well, my lord. Father," Gilan nodded to the Battlemaster, "it's good to see you again."

As the two embraced briefly the Baron marveled at the similarity between the father-son duo. Truly Gilan was a mirror image of the Battlemaster save a few inches and minus the greying hair.

"So Gilan, what brings you home to Caraway?" The Battlemaster inquired.

With a frown Gilan glanced at the Baron, "There should have been a note explaining my arrival. Crowley sent it last week..."

The Baron cleared his throat, "Yes, well- ahem- it may have gotten lost in translation somewhere."

The Ranger smiled easily, "No matter, it's a simple enough message. I've been reassigned to Caraway Fief."

"Excellent!" Battlemaster David clapped his son on the shoulder.

"Yes," Gilan grinned,"Redmont, Meric, Norgate, Whitby, and now Caraway Fief. Soon I'll be the most well-travelled Ranger in all of Araluen if Crowley has anything to say about it." He joked: Crowley- the head of the Ranger Corps- had a tendency to reassign Gilan every year, or so it seemed.

Fergus frowned, "You were assigned to Norgate?"

Gilan nodded, "Yes, my lord, for a short time."

The Baron and the Battlemaster shared a glance, the latter suggesting, "I think we may have the solution to our problem."

The Baron frowned, "But only one man-"

"One Ranger." Sir David corrected, "And that can make all the difference."

Gilan's mouth turned downward as he struggled to follow this new turn in their conversation, "Problem?"

* * *

 ** _Fin! Thanks again for making it all the way ;) I await your critiques and comments._**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	3. A Thief in the Taproom

_**Hello readers! I'm truly honored that you think the story is decent enough to have read this far. So thank you for that ^_^**_

 _ **Not much to say here, I'm posting this Chapter because I decided I might as well finish introducing our main characters before delving into the meat of the story (trust me, that part will**_ **definitely** _ **take a couple of days to perfect before I post). I'm aware these are short chapters, I've decided that these first three will be more of an introduction to the characters and the world.**_

 _ **But that ends after Chapter 3- Longer posts to come next time!**_

 _ **SO! Without further ado, I am glad to present the final installment of what I've come to consider as the prequel chapters of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger**_

 _ **As always, I look forwards to your comments: good or bad :)**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

News of a minstrel in Hawkentown spread to the rest of Caraway Fief faster than any wildfire. By the time the lanterns were lit the night following the next, the Tipsy Gypsy pub was packed to the rafters with the most astounding array of farmers, stableboys, warriors in training, craftsmen, and the like.

This, of course, meant that the waitresses and busboys were constantly moving: topping off tankards, washing and wiping down empty mugs, scuttling to the cellar to fetch extra kegs, all while managing to avoid tripping and falling over the many patrons crammed in the room. It was a challenging task, an intricate dance where the partners were consistently out of sync with one another.

Amidst the rhythm of the caper, Damara took the lead, her short, wiry frame easily squeezing between an exuberant drinker and the cold stone wall. Upon reaching the counter, she slammed down the empty flasks and winked at one of the busboys.

"We'll be making our weight in gold if this keeps up." She said heartily, having lost count of how many kegs were opened, only to be drained quickly and replaced, to then have the replacements be emptied just as fast.

The boy grunted, topping off the cups. As he did, Damara cast her gaze around the taproom. The bard, Brom, was seated close to the middle of the room, where a small space had been cleared for dancing. At present, one of the barmaids was entertaining the loudmouth Steven as they stumbled to the beat in a rusty jig. The surrounding drunks were laughing and cheering as the pair made merry.

The music wasn't half bad, in fact it was rather good- if Damara had to admit it. The young minstrel certainly knew how to read the crowd: after a long bout of dancing and laughter, he'd somber up the tone with a slow ballad, only to pick up the pace again with a fun hymn.

There was a call for more beer and Damara realized with a start that the busboy had finished refilling her mugs. With a smile of thanks, she swept up the tray and began the intricate task of delivering the brew. As she pushed through the customer's, the beads in her hair clacked and the bangles around her ankle chimed with her movements. Meanwhile Brom's song ended with one last chord and the taproom erupted into cheers. The other waitresses took the opportunity to make hasty runs while there was a lull in the music; having remained safely beside the bar in fear of tripping and falling amongst the rowdy bunch.

Damara snorted at their hesitation, reaffirming to herself that she was indeed the most skilled barmaid in the town. As if to test her claim, a trainee from the battleschool lurched backwards, blundering into the small girl.

As she felt gravity take hold, her body reacted instinctively.

The off-kilter foot swept back in a ron de jong motion and Damara curled into a crouch, the arm with the tray of merchandise pivoting gyroscopically at the elbow to keep the foaming mugs from spilling over. Her free hand slammed to the ground for stability as the action was completed.

A relieved sigh slipped from her lips as she stood back up carefully, inspecting the goods. She smiled at the sight of the three flasks; not a drop spilt. Well, okay, a _few_ drops had escaped; but not enough for a drunken man to notice. Looking around, Damara saw that her three second topple had gone unnoticed by practically everyone in the pub. They were too busy listening to Brom as he struck up another tune, this one about a king with bowel issues and a drunken dragon. His voice rang clearly around the bar:

 _"_ Oh, _the drunken king of Angledart could blow out candles with a fart,_

 _But the world never knew of the courage in his heart till he slayed the Staggering Dragon._

 _Oh, the Staggering Dragon had four knock-knees and he staggered around and knocked down trees,_

 _And he burned his bum every time he sneezed with the flames of his dragon breath!"_

The song was well received as peals of laughter emerged around the bar.

After delivering her load, Damara made her way back to the bartop. On the way, she sojourned towards the trainee who'd almost caused the spill. He was a muscular fellow, tall with light brown hair and an unmistakable glaze over his eyes that came with intoxication.

He would be an easy target.

With a small bumble, Damara pretended to bump into the man accidentally, her hands clinging to the trainee for support. He looked down in confusion and Damara muttered a hasty apology before slipping away. The trainee watched her go with the same befuddled expression until his buddies shoved another mug in his face with hoots and hollers.

The absence of his gold piece would go unnoticed until the following morning.

* * *

Brom was quite pleased at the evening's turnout. By the time the last patron had staggered out the door, the sun could be seen peeking over the eastern hills. However the work was far from done for the busboys and waitresses. They scurried about, cleaning and sweeping and restocking as he packed up his instrument.

Stifling a yawn, he moved over to the bar and placed a few of the night's earnings on the countertop. The bartender took the offering gratefully, scooping them into the larger piles of tips; it was common practice for a performer to pay patronage to its host. And the fact that Brom offered the coins without prompting spoke volumes to the old bartender.

"Coffee?" The barkeep offered.

"I'd gladly welcome a pot of tea if you've got any. Does wonders for my voice." Brom explained.

The barkeep nodded and called to one of the busboys to put up a kettle, "Quite a showing, eh?"

"Not bad at all." Brom agreed.

"So how long are you planning to stay in Hawkentown?" The bartender asked with a side glance. Brom took a long moment before answering, knowing what he was about to say would disappoint the older man.

" _Tomorrow?_ "

"Well, today, to be exact. It _would_ have been tomorrow if I'd mentioned it last night but since tomorrow became today, it's more accurate to say I'll be leaving this afternoon." Brom said in his roundabout manner, smiling as the busboy returned with a steaming cup, "Thanks, lad."

"But... but, yeh only just arrived!" The bartender blustered.

"And I'll only just be leaving." Brom replied, sipping at the sweet aromatic drink. "My true goal was always to reach Norgate but that storm drove me a bit off-course." The barkeep sputtered, looking for some excuse to convince his money maker to stay for another night or two.

"Why don't you head out with the caravan. Surely traversing the plains will be safer with them." A soft voice suggested.

The two men turned, surprised at the interjection of one of the waitresses. The girl was young, maybe in her late teens, wearing a dark cobalt bandana the same hue as her eyes. Peeking out from underneath the scarf were wisps of wavy scarlet locks, some of which were interwoven with delicate silver beads. A small silver hoop dangled from her right ear and a length of chord was tucked beneath her shirt. In her hands she held a mop, currently in the process of cleaning up a particularly nasty puddle of... on second thought, Brom decided _not_ to imagine what could be in that chunky mess.

The bartender's face cleared and he jumped on the opportunity. "Tha's right!" He cried in triumph, "Baron Fergus recently declared that more supplies were to be sent up to Norgate."

"Really?" The skepticism was apparent as the minstrel massaged the tea between his hands, "How... convenient. When is it that this caravan departs?"

"In two days or thereabouts." The barkeep rubbed his forehead, realizing this meant at best he was stalling for a mere one extra night.

Brom considered the offer. Travelling in large groups usually attracted more unwarranted attention; as bandits tended to prey on those they could make a profit off of. On the other hand, it could prove helpful when covering treacherous terrain to have other people to watch your back. In these parts, and during this season bandits would likely be far and few between, whereas the chance of getting caught in a blizzard was much more likely to transpire.

With a defeated sigh, Brom took a deep gulp of his tea- it really was quite delicious- and nodded, "Fair enough. I'll stay for tonight and catch a ride with the caravan."

The bartender let out a delighted whoop, "Good on yeh, lad! Good on yeh! I'll send word to the Baron that you wish to join 'em."

Neither of them noticed the waitress leave, or that the pile of tips was a half-dozen coins short of it's original size.

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading guys (and gals)!**_

 _ **A few last things:**_

 _ **First, to FreeRunner: THANK YOU THANKYOUTHANKYOU! You were my first official reviewer and may I say- I practically cheered when I read the review. So glad you like the story thus far, I hope this third one keeps you coming back for more :D And never fear! I do plan to continue this fanfic, just maybe not at this rapid pace ;P**_

 _ **To Ensis96: My second official reviewer ;) High praise indeed from an author such as yourself! I've read (and reread) your Harry Potter Fanfic and to get such an awesome comment was really encouraging so thank you! Well, here's your thief: I hope you enjoy watching her work- which you will get a nice glimpse of in the next chapter- as much as I enjoy writing her.**_

 _ **To the many readers from Poland, the Netherlands, Australia, the UK, Singapore, and Canada: I never imagined this story could reach outside my home country in such a short period of time. I hope you are following it with ease and that nothing gets lost in translation ;) Out of curiosity, how do the songs transfer? Do they sound weird? Or does the rhyming scheme actually make sense? Let me know- It'd be interesting to learn how that works.**_

 _ **And to my many US viewers: Even if you don't send me a review *glare and finger waggle of shame* It still makes me smile to see the number of people who've read the story climb up and up and up- so thank you for the support :)**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	4. The Heist of Dreams

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **CURSE YOU ALL! You just HAD to go and get over a hundred- 100!- views of this story. Whelp- NOW you've done it. You've inspired me to keep up my rapid, one post a day pace. Dang it you guys, I can't keep making exceptions ;) that's called favoritism, you know.**_

 _ **I was really planning to get this out Friday at the earliest, but- GAH! I hate to disappoint when quite a few of you have stuck with it this far. It's not as long as I'd hoped but it's definitely longer than the prequel chapters [about twice the average length] and the end of it feels like a nice stopping point (or is it a heart-pounding cliffhanger? Bwahahaha!... It's not, don't worry. That'd just be mean ;P)**_

 _ **So here we go! Chapter 4 of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger. Enjoy!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

 _ **p.s. Seriously, though. Don't expect this to keep happening, I won't get my beauty sleep if I keep up this quick pace. (wait? WHAT? I don't get beauty sleep anyway? Dawwww...)**_

* * *

Damara cursed herself quietly as the back door shut behind her: _What_ had possessed her to tell the minstrel about the caravan?

The sun was rising as the girl trudged through the snowy paths that criss-crossed the village. Damara was headed towards the inner parts of Hawkentown. Here the buildings were larger, being home to the more wealthy families and patrons who aided in the making of the new town. She shivered and wrapped her black cloak tighter around herself as a harsh wind blew from the east. The attempt to stay warm was done halfheartedly, as the multiple tears and holes in the fabric allowed small pockets of air to billow inside her cocoon.

Now, Damara was far from poor; her pickpocketing skills assuring that she could always afford a warm meal and lodging. But Papi's rule #5 was to always appear less wealthy than you actually were. So with that in mind Damara had left most of her quality wares in a hollow floorboard under her bed.

Speaking of… the girl looked up as she approached her destination. The Good Fish inn was fairly new, a good head or two smaller than the surrounding buildings but still laden with snowfall. On the verandah, the innkeeper's husband was busy sweeping away the white powder before it coalesced into ice. He looked up at her approach with a gruff smile.

"Good pastnoon." He called.

"Good pastnoon." Damara returned politely with a nod.

Traversing the outer steps, the girl sighed with pleasure as the door opened with a gush of warmth. Inside the agrarian structure, the innkeeper was busy tending to the fire, her back to the door. Silently, Damara slipped up the stairs, heading for her temporary lodging. Locking the door behind her, Damara went through her usual routine of inspecting the room, searching for any sign of tampering as she followed Papi's rule #4: You could never be too careful. Usually when you feel you are safe, you are at your most vulnerable. Only after her third sweep of the room did Damara finally relax, unfastening her cloak and tossing it onto the rumpled covers of the bed.

Crouching on hands and knees, she pried up the aforementioned floorboard; receiving a quick stab of guilt at having picked apart the neoteric structure. Damara quickly discarded the emotion, pulling up the sagging sack of coins she'd accumulated from her past two months in Hawkentown: many of which she'd surmounted from her waitressing work, and more than a few of which she'd acquired through… less-than-legal methods. After depositing her latest earnings in the pouch, she resumed her rummaging. Next she removed a rolled up sheet of paper tied with a thin string, a long, thin box that jangled when it's weight shifted, and finally she procured her leathers.

They were one of Damara's most prized possessions; a final parting gift from Papi. The thick hide was tanned to a deep coal black, with rabbit fur lining the inside. Divided into three parts, Damra could don the armor in under a minute if she so chose.

But she was in no such rush today, and it was not yet time to wear the garment.

Focusing on the paper, the girl carefully unrolled the sheet, glancing at the building's layout data she'd gathered carefully over the past three weeks. It was finally time: 'the big heist' as her teacher would call it. Of course, Papi's rule #3 stated: Only steal if you _have_ to. Stealing for pleasure or revenge will only get you caught, and then killed.

Papi's rule #2 however, was: If you steal not out of necessity, but for the challenge, make sure you secure a quick escape. Not from the guards, not from the house or mansion or castle, not from the town, not from the fief, not even escaping the country is enough. You can never run far enough so make sure you have the means to keep running.

That caravan was Damara's quick escape.

Which meant _her_ challenge- her great heist- would have to be completed tonight. Every one of Papi's pupils had to complete an extraordinary feat before they could join his ranks: Not only did an initiate have to _find_ an invaluable item to steal, but they had to solo the job. Surveillance, infiltration, requisition, and lastly, flight and remittance. After proving to the teacher they had been successful, an initiate's final test would be given.

Damara's target, and her intentions, would not only satisfy the requirements for her challenge, but would solidify her standing as the most cunning of acolytes. That was, _if_ she managed to pull off the great heist. To do so she would have to follow Papi's first, simplest, and most important rule:

 _Never_ get caught.

* * *

Guards had it rough.

Between morning drills, escort duty, and the night patrols, it was a miracle the armor laden men could still stand by the end of their shifts. Their meals were typically simple and bland, and they were always the first in line for facing dangerous enemies; be it bandits, wolves, or any other manner of beasts. Even if a comrade in arms fell they were still expected to protect what they had been told to protect. It was a thankless task, as those they guarded could never seem to feel quite secure enough, ordering extra rounds of patrols or sending the guards to investigate every small sound. Then there was the tireless task of attempting to _stay_ awake during those extra hours.

And if something went wrong it was _always_ the guard's fault.

Not that anyone considered for a moment how the guards felt. From their point of view it was easy to get lax in their rounds. After patrolling the same scenery for endless hours upon days upon weeks upon months, it became commonplace to glance over a potentially harmful situation. And did anyone consider an adversary could actually be- gasp- _more skilled_ than a guard? What an absurd notion. It didn't matter how many times a guard got it right. No, the second something went south it would end up with someone getting killed, or worse... fired.

And Josef didn't plan on getting fired tonight.

He was a recent hire at Lord Barda's manor, and even though he and a half-dozen other battleschool acolytes had been assigned to the house, it was still shockingly understaffed. Security was stretched thinly around the grounds, with only four guards manning the outer gate and a mere six more to cover both the inner garden and the multitude of halls and rooms. Even better, the whole estate had but two reliefs, so the shifts were roughly six to eight hours apart.

At that thought Josef glanced out at the crescent moon. Based on it's position he still had two hours to go. Or was it three? He could never remember whether it was one hand length that equaled an hour or if it was one and a _half_ hand lengths. Either way Josef still had a long bout of guarding to do. At the thought he found himself yawning.

Shaking his head as if to rid himself of the exhaustion, the trainee stood and continued his patrol: movement always helped one stay awake. He passed the drawing room and two of the ballrooms before encountering another guard. Their paths were designed to cross every half hour or so, and Josef nodded solemnly to the armored man. The guard nodded back and the two passed each other, progressing on their way.

The moon was just starting to set when Josef rounded the corridor that led to the library. Stopping for a moment to look out of the large stained glass windows, he saw lights flickering through the paneled surfaces and he cursed his luck. Word had it that this was the last night the local tap would be hosting the enigmatic bard they called Brom. Josef was more than a little disappointed that he'd not gotten a chance to listen to the minstrel during Brom's short visit to Caraway Fief: entertainment was a rarity this time of year, after all.

With a gloomy exhale, the guard began slowly sauntering towards the dead end where two arching pine doors stood erect, the detailed carvings along the edges providing a further display of Lord Barda's wealth. As he drew up to the massive structure he could make out the smaller details from the scattered rays of moonlight: A warrior chased a dragon up the left side of the door, an elderly man sporting a crookedly pointed hat held a staff in his hand, two demon-tailed twins ran down the right side, chasing a maiden in a gown towards the bottom of the door, and a small figure clad in black crouched in the shadowy folds to his right.

The guard blinked twice, staring into the startling blue gaze of the intruder for a moment.

Then his mind registered there was an intruder.

Scrambling backwards, the guard drew his sword hastily, pointing it tip first at the small figure that had risen from it's crouched position, hands raised in surrender.

"Easy there, fella. No need for anyone to get hurt." The low voice was surprisingly feminine.

"P-Put your hands up! You're under arrest!" Josef demanded, wincing as his voice cracked.

The interloper coughed politely, "My hands… are already up." He pointed out, the soft tone mixed with amusement.

Blushing furiously in embarrassment, Josef followed the next step in the apprehension procedure he'd been drilled in. "Step forwards into the light slowly." Following his instruction, the robed figure took a light step towards him, arms still raised. The robe, he realized, was actually just a dappled grey and black leather outfit; a pattern that caused the shadows to swirl around the intruder as he moved. The trespassers face was half hidden by a dark blue bandana, and strands of- was that black or red- hair peeked out from under the hood. Strapped to his belt was a sole sheath of equally dark nature, and Josef could see a strangely shaped hilt protruding from the end; a dagger of some sorts.

"Remove your weapon." He commanded, leveling his longsword at the intruder's neck. No doubt this interloper was an expert knife wielder; perhaps he had come to murder the Lord and Lady!

"Didn't need them anyway." The intruder shrugged, bringing down a hand to remove the blade, no- blades, plural! They were butterfly daggers, a type of weapon that could be wielded as one sword or as split weapons.

"Good," Josef said, feeling in total control of the situation and already anticipating the praise he would receive from the criminals apprehension. "Now toss them aside and kneel with your hands behind your head." As the intruder tossed them to the side, the guards eyes instinctively followed the motion for a split second.

It was all the trespasser needed.

The figure shot forwards, knocking aside Josef's sword arm. Before the trainee could react the intruder was within his guard, and any moment now Josef was sure to feel the cool steel of a hidden blade slip in just below his rib cage. Such a pathetic way to die, he thought. Then he realized that might be the _last_ thing he ever thought.

To his shock, the intruder didn't kill him. Instead he felt a hand slip up around his neck, pulling it forwards. The other hand whipped around and slapped him in a downwards motion along the jawline before both hands released their hold. Stumbling away from the encounter, Josef had just enough time to think: _W_ _hat the heck?_ Before his vision starred and his limbs went limp.

By the time the spots cleared, the guard realized he was now propped up against the far wall facing the windows. The door to the library opened and the intruder slipped out from… _inside the library!_ Josef made to stand but found his muscles wouldn't respond. Grunting with effort, he struggled against the restraints, only to be surprised once more when his mind grasped the fact that there _were_ no restraints. Looking over at the small noise, the intruder closed the distance between them and crouched down.

"What did you do to me? How long have I been out?" Josef demanded, but all that escaped his lips was a muffled "Hrmmp, huh, mehs." Almost as if his lips were numb and swollen.

"Oh, you've only been unconscious for five minutes, tops." The intruder supplied helpfully, almost as if he knew what the paralyzed guard was asking, "Not that you'll remember this whole escapade."

Josef began to sweat, the way the intruder had so calmly informed him he'd be dead soon was chilling; especially the part about him soon being dead.

"I'm not gonna kill you." The intruder reassured as he reached for a pouch on his belt, again giving the guard the impression that the thief could read his mind. Opening a small bag, the trespasser shook it's contents and waved it under the guard's nostrils.

Josef felt his body relax, his eyes drooping.

The interloper nodded in satisfaction, putting away the chemical and reaching to his neckline to pull out a long cord. At the end of it was a lapis gemstone that seemed to glow with an inner light as it reflected the moonbeams. The trespasser began swinging the dangling string from side to side, much in the manner of a grandfather clock's pendulum bob. Josef's half-lidded eyes followed the pretty color as it swayed hypnotically.

The intruder began to talk in a low droning voice.

"Focus on the gem. As you focus on it your eyelids will become so heady that every time you blink it gets harder to reopen them. In fact, even now they are so weighted it's nearly impossible to open them."

 _What sorcery is this?_ The guard struggled to keep his lids raised as the droning voice continued, "The next time they blink they will be three times as heavy as I count from five down to one. They will be so heavy they will actually be stuck shut. The muscles in your face will melt, ready? Five…. four, relaxing more…. Three…. Two…. And one…." The intruder snapped.

All Josef could see was darkness.

He heard the intruder stow away the necklace as he continued to talk, "They are now loose and limp and in fact, the more you try to open them, the more stuck shut they become. Now, when I touch your right arm you will begin to forget the last ten minutes, you will start to lose the memory of what transpired and you will begin to think it was a dream. You will think it was all a dream and then you will dream, and when you wake this will all be a long forgotten shadow in the back of your mind. Ready? I'm going to touch your arm in five…. Four…. Three…. Two…." The voice was barely a whisper now.

Josef felt a slight tap on his left forearm followed by the sounds of quickly retreating footsteps. They were soft, almost too soft to hear, and Josef began to wonder if he- in fact- did hear anything at all or if that was just the sound of a dormouse scurrying past him as he snuck into the kitchen for an extra serving of Griselda's delicious pie. The charismatic cook would flog him if she knew he'd been skulking around in her kitchen. But- Mmm, the flaky pastries were always delicious and the smell of a fresh baked one wafted through the cracks of the oven door. Maybe if he could just sneak in one extra _eensy-weensy_ little bite, then he-

As his head lulled forwards the guard snapped awake, blinking in the morning light that filtered through the stained glass windows. Yawning, Josef stood groggily, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Frowning at his slumped position on the ground, the man stood and stretched his cramped muscles, apprehension dawning as the guard discerned that he'd fallen asleep while on patrol.

At least none of the other's had seen him. If he had been found sleeping on watch he could get fired, after all.

* * *

 _ **Fin! Whew, I can't believe I splurged that out in one day- it was exhausting.**_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **To FreeRunner: Another review! AWESOME! I'm ecstatic to have gotten a fan like you who reviews frequently- that kind of dedication is hard to come by ;) I too, cannot WAIT to have Gil and Damara go toe to toe with some witty banter or some awesome tag team fighting action or whatever else happens. Your guess is as good as mine ;) Again, my endless thanks for the review- it was one of the main reasons this chapter got done in such a short time. I'm glad you like the story, hope I don't disappoint.**_

 _ **To the readers at large: I can hear many of you screaming at me that magic doesn't belong in the world of John Flanagan. To you I say: Never fear! True to the RA universe my Fanfiction will NOT feature some half-baked magic tricks. To quote Halt from Book 5: "Ninety-five percent of the cases [involving 'sorcery'] have been nothing but mumbo jumbo and trickery. Nothing that couldn't be solved with a well-placed arrow."**_

 _ **If you haven't**_ _ **picked up on how Damara pulls off her neat tricks and mumbo jumbo, don't fret- all will be explained in a later chapter. Author's promise.**_

 _ **One last thing before I sign off. As you may have noticed after reading Chapter 4, I'm not going to always stick to telling things from the main character's point of view (MC's POV). Dmara's whole heist was told from the guards perspective which- personally- I felt was a really REALLY fun way to poke at it.**_

 _ **What did you guys think?**_

 _ **If you enjoyed it please let me know so I can include some more scenes like this. If you hated it- good! You don't have to like everything I do, but drop me a comment saying you prefer staying with the MC's POV, or else I'll never know how it was received. Unfortunately, I can't read your minds (tragic, right?), so reviews are the only way I can get feedback from you, the readers.**_

 _ **As always I enjoy your comments and love the following this story's gotten. What started as a fun idea last Saturday has evolved into one of my favorite stories to write.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	5. Tension in the Air

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **Sorry for the (almost) late update- I still have five minutes until midnight so technically I didn't miss the weekly deadline.**_

 _ **I was out of town visiting family for the weekend and didn't get much internet time :( and when I got back on Monday I decided to do some research (as in rereading some of the books) and THEN I was helping out with my high school's marching band camp- because for those of you who haven't read my profile I was in said marching band for the past four years. Then I graduated ^_^ and now I'm helping out when I can.**_

 _ **But the camp just ended tonight so I should be able to post a bit more frequently. Maybe ;)**_

 _ **To be honest another reason this took so long to get out was that I was stuck. I realized I didn't really have a true plot or character backgrounds and so I spent a long time sketching those out.**_

 _ **But anyway, Chapter 5 is now complete! YAY! So I will stall no longer.**_

 _ **Please enjoy the next installment of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger,**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

The caravan- if it could even be called that- met at the eleventh hour by the gates of Hawkentown. When Brom thought of a caravan he pictured a row of wagons with a host of guardsmen patrolling along the sides. He thought of majestic horses trotting, double file, along wide paths and their drivers laughing to one another as they made the long trek. He did _not_ picture a single, mud-crusted, tarp-covered cart with a sole driver, pulled by...

"What in the name of Gorlog's great tangled beard are those?" The minstrel exclaimed.

Steven frowned and looked over as he adjusted the animal's yolk, "Never seen a Musk Ox before?"

"I've seen oxen, but these hairy beasts are nothing like the ones they use down south." Brom shook his head in wonder as he walked around the gruff animals.

Oxen were frequently used for plowing, threshing, and logging in the southern Feifs. But those oxen were short haired and spouted gigantic horns the length of a man's leg. These... Wildabeasts, were the complete opposite, their horns were short and framed the bovine's face before curving slightly upwards; and their long dark hair swept the snow as the oxen shuffled, searching for a solid footing on the icy ground. Their breath steamed in the early morning air.

"These here are Pot and Pan." Steven patted the identical beasts in turn as they were introduced.

"Pot and Pan?" Brom raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Blushing, Steven coughed, "Aye, well I had my boys name 'em. They're barely past infancy so they don't know many words."

"Musk Ox." Brom filed away the information as he moved to tack his own mount which stood nearby. "Hear that, Bartholemule? We'll be traveling with musk oxen."

The chestnut haired mule just looked at it's owner with it's big brown eyes and snorted. With a fond pat on the neck, Brom began to secure his gear; bedroll, tent, teapot, bag of smoked beef and rolls, and of course, his instrument.

"Make sure they're secured, nice and tight." Steven called back to a small figure loading the cart.

"Nice and tight, aye."

Frowning at the softer second voice, Brom looked around to see a flash of cobalt blue disappear behind the cart. The bard dismissed the figure with a shake of his head, _surely it couldn't be..._ His thought was left unfinished as his gaze rested on another bay horse, shaggy and barrel chested, standing obediently as it's rider attached a roll of supplies.

The rider himself wore a strange white and grey cloak that seemed to blend with the surrounding snow, the illusion confounding the minstrel's eyes as it struggled to deduce where the cloak ended and the scenery began. Tearing his eyes from the spectacle, Brom's gaze snared onto the silver stylized oakleaf that hung from a chain around the rider's neck.

A ranger, he realized.

He decided to make such a mention to Steven, who glanced over warily, "Aye, he's the main reason we're headed to Norgate." At Brom's frown of incomprehension the Ox driver continued, "The Baron is sending him to help the northern feif with the fighting."

"They think one man can help win a war?"

"One _ranger_." Steven corrected with a shake of his head, "That's as good as sending ten men- or so I've heard. Personally, I'd rather not get involved with 'em." Steven shuddered.

"Oh?" Brom raised an eyebrow at the man's reaction. He had heard of Rangers of course. It was impossible to be in his line of work and _not_ hear the circulating rumors of the green caped men; some believed them to be sorcerers, others claimed they were the King's eyes and ears. With their uncanny ability to disappear into the woods and shoot the stem off an apple from a hundred meters away, most commonfolk were wary, if not outright afraid of the mysterious tight-knit group.

Brom, of all people, knew that such skills could be invaluable in a skirmish. Still, it was always hard to imagine one man- ranger or not- turning the tide of battle.

"A patch is better than a hole." The minstrel said softly.

Steven looked over with a frown, "Did'ja say something, Brom?"

Brom flashed his easy smile, "Just saying how I'd like to get underway. Bartholemule here isn't terribly used to the cold." With a quick shiver Brom added, "And neither am I."

"Then let us be off."

The young, crisp voice startled the two men who both turned to face the Ranger who now stood but a meter away. Steven gave a hasty salute and hurried to the driver's box.

Now that the Ranger was in close proximity, Brom could see he was quite young under the cowl; perhaps even a year younger than the bard himself. He had a fresh face, and a full head of dark brown hair.

Neither the Ox driver or the bard had heard him approach.

Brom prided himself on his ability to understand strangers with a glance- it was a healthy tool for those in his line of work- so when the minstrel looked into the eyes of the Ranger he was able to read the many years of training and experience the young man had endured. There was also an unmistakable air of confidence- and not the misplaced kind either that many young people displayed. This was the confidence of a man who knew his own capabilities.

 _This is the type of person I can write legends about_ , Brom thought approvingly as the Ranger walked back to his horse.

* * *

"Make sure they're secured, nice and tight." Steven called back for the umpteenth time as he swung up onto the driver's box. And for the umpteenth time he received the same answer.

"Nice and tight, aye." Damara called as she climbed onto the back of the cart, sitting atop one of the crates as the open air wagon jostled forewords. From her vantage she could see clearly for at least a hundred meters in either direction. The snowfall from the previous two nights seemed to have let up and a clear sky shone through a smattering of wispy clouds. The forest trees in the distance were laden with snow, and occasionally, an evergreen branch would dip under the weight and spill its contents onto unsuspecting travellers.

From time to time, Damara felt the minstrels gaze on her, but he never said anything, and she never prompted him to speak. Damara found herself studying the ranger, and more so the way his cloak seemed to befuddle the eye. Vaguely, the girl recalled Papi mentioning something about how her leathers were made in a similar fashion; but Damara had never seen a ranger cloak before.

Which, Damara reasoned, meant that the pattern was doing it's job.

Her hand inadvertently moved to touch her satchel, feeling the item inside. If the ranger ever found it she'd face more than a few years in one of their petty prisons.

Eventually, the bard struck up a conversation with Steven, asking about the Ox driver's son's and how the harvest had been for the past few years. Their carefree chatter carried over the breeze and as she listened, Damara could pick out a strange cadence to the bard's words. It wasn't so much an accent as a speech pattern, his tone would rise and fall with almost a melodic sense to them.

It was surprisingly soothing and the girl relaxed, leaning back against sacks of grain. With a yawn she tucked her hands behind her head; last night's venture showed through the bags under her eyes. Damara let them close, convincing herself that she was only resting.

When she woke up the sky had darkened considerably, and the caravan was no longer moving.

* * *

By the time they set up camp for the evening, Gilan had a solid plan laid out.

His orders had been simple, perhaps _too_ simple: Go to Norgate, talk to Ranger Meralon, fix the problem, don't get killed. Great advice from the Baron and Battlemaster of Caraway. Despite the crudeness of his task, Gilan had begun to lay out his future moves as the caravan had travelled.

Clearly going to Norgate was a waste of time. If anything, the real fighting would be taking place at Castle Macindaw, the fiefs _true_ stronghold against the Scotti tribes. Chances were good that Ranger Meralon would be there as well- as ranger's typically tended to be found in the middle of any mess. So Gilan's first move would be to reach Castle Macindaw and contact Lord Orman. Then he would consult with Meralon and assess the situation himself. And finally, he would act on what he saw.

As he called the caravan to a halt he realized his plan was no more flushed out than the original instructions. With a shrug he dismissed the idea, dismounting and patting Blaize twice on the neck. The horse tossed its head, having received the command to stay where it was. From a young age, the foals were taught a series of signals for which a rider could command. Identifying a new sound, staying silent, even giving them permission to graze freely had some sort of sign. Ranger horses were a breed apart from the sturdy mounts used by knights.

Bartholemule, on the other hand, was not expertly trained, and shifted from foot to foot in the frigid temperature. The ranger glanced at the minstrel before his gaze settled on the Ox driver.

"We'll camp here for tonight. Move the wagon off of the roadside and start setting up your tents." Gilan said, addressing the men. Without waiting for them to move, he turned and let out a low whistle, summoning Blaize to his side. With practiced ease the Ranger quickly moved off and set up his one man lean-to. Once he was finished he turned to survey the others. The bard had already set up his tent as was carefully stoking a cooking fire. The Ox driver, Steven, and his assistant, the blue-bandana girl, were still putting up theirs.

Gilan moved to offer his assistance, deciding to help the lady first, as manners dictated he should. If he was being honest, Gilan would admit his decision to help the girl was also partly due to Steven's apparent apprehension towards the young Ranger.

Crossing the small campsite, Gilan stepped up and gestured to the tangled pile of rods and tarp, "Would you like a hand." He offered kindly.

The girl shrugged, "Do what you want."

Gilan picked up a rod, deciding an introduction would help loosen the mood.

"I'm Gilan."

"And I'm busy," The girl responded almost instantly, bending down to drive a stake into the snow, "so if you don't mind."

Baffled at her reaction they finished assembling the shelter in silence, after which the girl promptly strode over to the wagon, grabbed her stuff, and disappeared inside her tent. A bark of laughter drew the ranger's attention and he turned to see the bard smiling at him from across a steaming pot of stew. Steven sat beside him, huddled in a thick blanket against the cold night.

"Not very talkative, that one." Brom said, patting the ground beside him where the snow had been cleared away, "Care to join us? Steven's an _excellent_ cook, or so he's assured me." The Ox driver cast a nervous glance Gilan's way as he continued to monitor the pot. Sensing his unease, Brom clapped him on the shoulder, saying, "A feast is no use without good talk, right, Steven?"

"I- I guess so."

Gilan smiled and accepted the offer, sitting with a sigh, "I'll never get used to spending all day in the saddle." He gestured to the two men, "The name's Gilan. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, but I was eager to get under way."

The minstrel nodded, "As were we all. I'm Ebrommius- Brom for short, and this cheery fellow here," he pounded the Ox driver's back a few times, "is Steven."

Gilan cast his gaze over the nervous man and flashed his most disarming smile, "I'm grateful that you volunteered to transport these materials. The troops at Castle Macindaw will appreciate it."

Steven ducked his head, slightly embarrassed to be thanked by a Ranger.

Brom, however, frowned, "Castle Macindaw? I thought we were headed to Norgate?"

"We are," Gilan nodded, "But chances are most of the actual fighting will be at Macindaw. So instead of wasting a week and a half to go to Norgate, and then be sent to Macindaw; I figure it'll be faster just to head there straight away."

Brom stroked his beard thoughtfully, "We'll get there in half the time."

"Or sooner." The ranger amended, "If the weather stays fair, that is."

Seeing the two men converse so casually eased the tension Steven had been feeling since that afternoon. He gradually began to relax around the Ranger and soon found himself wondering why he'd been so nervous in the first place. Gilan was an easily likable person, unlike his fellow Ranger's, who had developed a reputation for mystique and trepidation.

 _Maybe Rangers aren't all that bad_ , Steven found himself thinking.

* * *

From the trees, the figure watched the small caravan set up their camp.

He stood downwind so that the Ranger's horse wouldn't smell his stench. They bustled about and the girl soon went into her tent, leaving only the three men sitting around the fire. From his vantage point the figure could see them as they ate, methodically enjoying their meal. His own stomach rumbled, admonishing the figure for skipping out on lunch earlier. He ignored his stomach and kept his vigil, observing as the small group set up a watch.

Another hour passed before the figure turned away, fading into the trees as he went to report back.

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Final things...**_

 _ **First, to FreeRunner: Damara = Black Widow? WHAT! OMG that could totally work! I never thought about it but now that I've actually read up on BW's history I can kind of see how that connection might be made. Truthfully I was like, 'who's Natasha Romanoff?' and then I googled it and smacked myself for not remembering that. Thank you for your reviews! You remain one of...actually, the ONLY reviewer of this fanfic so anyone who wants to keep reading this story and see it continue better give you a HUGE hug. I'm talking giant, mountain-sized hugs here.**_

 _ **To the readers at large: 259! 259 Views of this story I started a week and a half ago. Holy Carp you guys! I'm honored that so many people have read this and continue to read this. Not only in the US mind; Adding onto the ever growing group of international viewers is Denmark, Singapore, and Brazil. Thanks for joining you guys! Since it's gotten quite the following I've decided to say thank you in all of those languages. So, here we go!**_

 _ **Thank you!**_

 _ **Dank je!**_

 _ **Dankewol!**_

 ** _Dziękuję Ci!_**

 ** _Gracias!_**

 ** _நன்றி !_**

 ** _Je vous remercie!_**

 ** _Obrigado!_**

 _ **That's it for today, as always I encourage you to review like my good buddy-o-pal FreeRunner. C'mon guys, don't leave one person with all the work ;)**_

 ** _Hope you enjoyed!_**

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	6. Old Times and New Troubles

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **So I'm just moseying along here with a fresh bout of ideas, how has your weekend been so far? Hopefully your day will brighten after seeing this post so soon after my last one. I wasn't sure if I'd finish today but guess what- you guys did it again!**_

 _ **300 views**_

 _ **Heck yea! I said three hundred! As in a three, with two zeros, and an exclamation mark. With that kind of motivation how can I NOT give you guys another chapter? Seriously, how?! I'm stoked you guys have read this far and I am so glad you like it, because I love writing this story!**_

 _ **On a side note; I went to a writing group my grandmother recommended and read chapter one for them (and they're a bunch of really kind, elderly ladies and gentlemen with fantastic stories of their own) and they were hooked! They even asked me what site I used and trust me, having people want to go online and read a story when they have trouble figuring out technology is AMAZING!**_

 _ **(If you guys are reading this know I'm so glad you've found the story and have read up til now ^_^)**_

 _ **Anyhoo, I won't stall anymore. This one goes to all my viewers, please enjoy Chapter 6 of Rangers Aprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

The Caravan was up and moving before the first rays of light peaked over the distant snowy rise. Gilan took point, with Brom and the cart following close behind. Now that his initial fears had been greatly subdued, Steven felt more comfortable travelling with the Ranger, and as such the distance between the bay horse and the oxen was shortened to half the length it had been the day before.

Damara couldn't have been less pleased with the development. The close proximity allowed the pesky bard to strike up a conversation with whomever he chose. And he just so happened to choose her.

"I never quite caught your name." He called back to her, his voice carrying in the silence of the morning.

"That's because I never offered it." Damara replied bluntly.

"Fair enough," the minstrel nodded, "In which case, would you kindly share that information with us? When I write the tale of our, undoubtedly, heroic venture across snow covered plains to deliver some much needed supplies to allied troops fighting a valiant enemy I can hardly refer to you as, 'girl'."

"That's not a very heroic title."

"You see?" Brom gestured to Gilan, "He gets it."

Damara cursed them both under her breath. Although the two men maintained their masks of expressionlessness, the jovial tones in their words were as clear as day. After another moment of the bard waiting expectantly, eyebrows raised, Damara realized it would hurt nothing to release such an insignificant piece of information. Better yet, it might get them to shut up.

"I'm Damara."

"Excellent!" Brom whipped out a journal and quickly scratched the name down on one of the many pages, "Yes, yes, Damara is a _much_ more heroic name than 'girl'. Oh, the ballads can practically write themselves with a name such as that," The minstrel began to sing, " _O' Damara, Damara a maiden so fair, with sapphire eyes and fiery red hair. The travelling beauty with a soft spoken whim, whose tongue was so sharp it made one's head spin_." Brom trailed off, cheerily humming to himself as his hand scribbled notes in the book.

Damara was already beginning to regret telling the bard her name.

Gilan, however, had frowned, "An interesting name." He mused. But Damara refused to acknowledge the attempt to hook her into a conversation. With a shrug the ranger discarded the venture, instead focusing his eyes on the road. To their right, the forests edge stood a few dozen meters away, and to their left was open grassland- or, to be more accurate, ice-land. Despite the lull in snowstorms, the frost-covered ground blanketed the plains in a white cloth, the frigid air churning up small snow flurries as the caravan trudged on. The sun climbed steadily higher and the group stopped for a quick meal of hardtack and jerky.

Dusting off crumbs, Gilan glanced at the sun's position, "If we can keep up this pace we should reach the Comhla Crossing before nightfall."

Steven frowned, not recognising the name, "Comhla?"

"It's the original name of the Married River," Brom supplied, "The land west of the northern mountain range and north of the Comhla River used to belong to the Scotti tribes. Then, with the Treaty of Gallica, Araluen acquired the territory and renamed the stream." Brom shrugged, "Of course another legend claims that the tributary got it's name because two lovers from warring nations pledged their love at the river. And when their families refused to approve the wedding, they killed themselves by drowning together in its icy embrace. A tragically poetic tale. Personally, I prefer the historical version of events." Brom concluded.

The ranger nodded, "I have to agree. The Comhla Crossing is a barge service that transports people from one side of the river to the opposite shore."

Steven rubbed his chin, "Now that you mention it, some friends of mine used a barge to get to Norgate on previous trips. Wouldn't it be faster to go across the Tulay bridge?" He inquired, drawing a quick diagram in the snow, "My friends told me the barge was good for getting to Norgate because it was further west, but Castle Macindaw is east of there so wouldn't talking the bridge save us time?"

The marks in the snow did indeed depict a quicker route was possible if they headed north east. However the ranger shook his head.

"I don't want to sacrifice safety for time." He declared, standing and dusting snow off of his cloak. "The tulay bridge is known for having bandits patrol the area. It won't do Norgate any good if we get there sooner, but without our supplies."

* * *

Gilan glanced up as Brom drew up alongside he and Blaize. Throughout the past half hour of cantering along he'd been surprisingly silent; although Gilan knew that exhaustion tended to present itself after any meal- warm or otherwise.

Waiting for the bard to speak, Gilan raised an eyebrow.

The questioning look did the trick and Brom indicated the black and white cloak with a gesture, "Is that a winter issue?"

A query on his fashion sense was the last thing the young ranger had expected, but Gilan recovered his wits quickly, replying, "Some would say that, yes."

Brom nodded thoughtfully, taking in the information, "And you said your name was Gilan?" the ranger confirmed this with a hesitant nod, not quite sure where the minstrel was going with this. "Could you possibly be _the_ Gilan who studied under the great swordsman MacNiel, and then trained under the studious eye of the legendary Ranger Halt? That Gilan?"

Again, the ranger nodded his confirmation.

"Your reputation, my friend," Brom said, after a long bout of silence, "Is well known throughout many lands, far and wide. It is my distinct honor- nay, my privilege, to travel this long forgotten road with someone such as yourself."

Gilan was stunned by the minstrels words of awe and respect. He wasn't entirely sure how to respond; most folks tended to be wary of fabled heroes, Gilan had seen such evidence during his apprenticeship with Halt. His former master was the hero who'd saved the King's army from destruction at the battle of Hackham Heath, the man who'd travelled across continents to save the King's daughter, he had fought off a Temunji invasion and helped forge a truce with the barbarish Skandians to the east. So when people heard Halt's name they usually cowed in fear of the imposing figure, simply by knowing of his accomplishments.

And here was a man, roughly a year older than Gilan himself, showing incredible veneration to the former pupil of such a legendary figure.

Blaize saved him the trouble of answering by tossing his head and snorting. Brom looked down at the horse with a grin, "And of course I am honored to meet your trusted mount as well." Seemingly satisfied with the parise, Blaize nickered softly.

The sound brought Gilan out of his stupor. Since the minstrel had struck up the conversation the ranger decided he'd use it to ask some questions of his own that had been mulling around in his head since yesterday.

"You seem to know quite a bit about me and yet, I still don't fully know who you are." He began, "Your name, Ebrommius, it sounds strangely Celtic."

"As well it should seeing as that's where I was born." Brom said with an easy grin.

"What made you come to Araluen?"

The minstrels face darkened at the follow up question, "The war." He said, "When Morgarath's army began taking over Celtica, we fled to Martinsyde Fief. My father, Glendyss, was a miner. They captured him to work on that wretched tunnel." Harsh bitterness clouded his words as Brom recalled the memory. He was silent for a moment, then he took a deep breath, continuing, "After the war ended, I was told by one of the survivors that he'd passed away, and that it had been an Araluen ranger who'd taken him to the Out of Light."

"Out of Light?" Gilan didn't recall the term.

"It's superstition among the Celtic miners that you have to die in the cave you worked in or else your spirit won't transcend to the next life." Brom explained, "Much like how Skandians fear the same if they don't die with a weapon in hand. I never got to thank the Ranger who gave my father this final peace." The bitterness was gone, replaced by thoughtful contemplation.

Brom shook his head, ridding himself of the heavy air that had settled on his shoulders, "So the rest of us decided to stay in Araluen," He said, opening his arms to gesture to the surrounding countryside, "And I trained to become a famous minstrel. But, only half of that statement has come true as of today; I certainly _am_ a minstrel."

Gilan smiled, "I'm sure the fame will come with time."

The two lapsed into a companionable silence for a time, the ranger having gained a newfound respect for the bard. Now it was a little clearer why the scruffy man hadn't shied away from conversation, and had seemed relatively at ease when in such a powerful presence. The sun began to descend quickly, causing the tall evergreens to cast lengthy shadows across the ground. It wasn't long after when the group could hear the soft guzzle of a rushing stream up ahead.

As they drew closer to the Married River, the trees began to press in, and Gilan's keen gaze spotted a small hut at the forest's edge where the barge ferryer held residence. A half dozen meters behind the hut was the river herself, the raging waters littered with small chunks of ice that had no doubt been carried from upstream. As the caravan approached, Blaize let out a soft whinny and tossed his head. Instantly, Gilan was alert, holding up a hand and signaling the others to stop.

Frowning, Brom glanced at the treeline. Not looking at the ranger, he asked, "Problem?"

Gilan shook his head, unsure of what had caused the bay horse to give a warning call. Perhaps it was some sort of scent in the air? But as Gilan's eyes took in the surrounding landscape he noticed something strange: the barge was gone. Now that he'd spotted the discrepancy, he noticed more missing items. There were no horses in the open stables and, even though the sun had just begun to sink, the cabin's chimney produced no smoke.

An explanation for the missing barge could be that the ferryer was on the other shore, which they couldn't see through the thick foliage. But each bank had a spare horse in case there was an emergency and the ferryer needed to contact someone. And, cozy as the cabin looked, it was no doubt bitterly cold without a fire, meaning that no one was currently _in_ the abode.

"Something's wrong." Gilan muttered.

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks again so much for reading!**_

 _ **Final things...**_

 _ **First to FreeRunner: Glad you enjoyed the previous chapter :) I'm trying to work in some more of those Gil/Damara scenes for ya. Love your ever-present reviews- thank you so much for sticking with it from chapter 1 ^_^**_

 _ **Quick commercial break!**_

 _ **If anyone is a fan of Star Wars I encourage you to check out my other fanfic called "A Smugglers Story." Spoilers: It's about a spunky smuggler who has to steal an item from the Jedi Temple. Lots of OC's and not many Cannons. Updated weekly every Friday (or thereabouts).**_

 _ **Okay, advertisement is done- back to RA.**_

 _ **As always, I urge you to review. Personally, I LOVE long reviews ;) I don't care if you're a guest and don't have an account, and I don't care if you do have an account. Heck, I don't care if you speak another language- I will find a way to translate what you've written. So please drop me some sort of comment or critique, I cherish the feedback like you can't fathom. So please please please review!**_

 ** _Enjoy the rest of your weekend!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	7. Riverside Skirmish

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **Not much to say for this one, I wrote and wrote and BAM! New chapter! The next one is currently in-progress so look for it soon. Maybe even by tomorrow afternoon? Soon for sure :)**_

 _ **As a side note I was watching the Tony's tonight and holy carp did Hamilton get tons of awards! I'm a huge fan of the musical- definitely worth checking out if you ask me. Lots of fantastic writing in that beautiful show!**_

 _ **Regardless, back to fanfiction. W** **ithout further ado, here is Chapter 7 of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

 _ **p.s. fair warning- lots of POV shifts in this chapter**_

* * *

A week had passed since the Scotti scouts had overtaken the barge outpost. Fergus MacGilroy, commander of this venture, sprouted the blue face paint of the MacKentick clan; all members of his group wore the white-and-red plaid kilts and the commander carried a round, studded shield with the image of a red lion wearing a crown on a white field. Both items were inherent signs of their clan. The scouts trek across the northern mountain range had been treacherous, and they'd lost half of their numbers crossing the rocky slopes. Now, with only seven men, MacGilroy was faced with the task of taking and securing the barge outpost.

It had been a simple enough matter, kill the ferryman and toss him into the river, slaughter the horse and use it's remains for food, then set up camp nearby- but not close enough to be seen from the road. But now, after a week of doing nothing, the small Scotti camp was disrupted when one of their lookouts came barreling into the clearing, babbling about an approaching caravan.

MacGilroy had watched from just inside the treeline as the figures drew near. The oxen-pulled cart had been easy to spot, coming over the far rise and meandering down towards the river. The forewarning had given MacGilroy and his men plenty of time to get into their positions. As the caravan had come within sight, all of the men were soon salivating at the notice of the two massive oxen. Horse meat was tasty and all, but those hairy hides would not only supplement the men until winter's end, but the thick pelts would make for some lovely, warm blankets.

The ambush plan was simple. Wait until the group moved to the ferryman's house, then Fergus would give the signal to attack. His other six men would lie in wait- two on the left of the path, three on the right, and one situated inside the cottage. The thick woods on either side of the short path to the river were good for concealment, and the element of surprise was on their side.

A perfect plan. Except for the fact that the group stopped thirty meters away.

MacGilroy frowned, peering closer at the three men. The one leading wore a strange black and white cloak, and a longbow could be seen unstrung over his shoulder. The front rider also carried a longsword, which was currently holstered in his saddle. The other mounted figure, clad in a thick jerkin with a scraggly beard had only a small crossbow, which was resting on his lap. The cart driver was defenseless, only holding a whip in hand which MacGilroy correctly guessed was for the oxen and not meant as a weapon.

The three men remained where they were for a time, none of them moving except the first rider who dismounted and began looking at his pony's hooves. Had it gone lame? The Scotti shook the notion, no, something wasn't right. Every instinct was screaming at him that there was more that he couldn't see. But it was no matter, the Scotti could handle any opponent.

Then an annoyed voice called out to the men and MacGilroy saw the girl.

* * *

"Why are we stopping?" Damara called to the front of the cart, rising from her seated position to glare at the men.

"Shut up and stay down." The ranger replied softly, not looking at her as he pretended to inspect Blaize. "We may be in for a fight."

Damara caught the seriousness in his tone and decided to shut up. Her hand instinctively moved to her leathers but stopped when she realized the garment had been safely tucked away amongst the cargo. She cursed her lack of preparedness but was reassured by the weight at her hip. She never went _anywhere_ without her blades.

"How many are we talking about." Brom inquired, casually moving his hand and palming a crossbow bolt from his pouch. The darts for the handheld weapon were barely larger than- well, a hand length, so the action would go unseen to their potential enemies.

"Can't say for sure," Gilan stood, walking over to the cart and making a pretense of rummaging around for a bit, "Could be two, could be a dozen."

"Wh-W-What should we d-do?" Steven said, quivering slightly at the prospect of a fight.

Gilan took a deep breath, realizing his predicament: none of his travelling companions were fighters. He himself was the only one trained for combat. The Ox driver was a civilian, as was the girl, and Brom- though he did have his crossbow- didn't have a means to fight in close-quarters.

As if sensing his train of thought, Brom looked back, saying, "I may not be as accurate as you rangers, but I can hold my own in a scuffle."

"Well, let's not fight if we don't have to." Gilan finally decided. "I'll go look around and see what I can find. Who knows, maybe the culprits are long gone." Even as he said the words the ranger was already doubting that outcome. Blaize wouldn't warn him if a potential threat wasn't nearby.

Brom dismounted, "I'll come with you." Seeing Gilan was about to object he continued, "Nothing you say or do will change my mind; and you can't order me to stay because unlike Steven here," Brom smiled, "I chose to come of my own free will and not as a favor to your Baron."

"I'm coming too." Both men turned to stare at Damara.

"No." This time Gilan was firm, "It's too dangerous for a civilian."

Damara felt a twinge of anger at the title of 'civilian', but forced herself to speak logically, "I'll stay a good distance behind you guys. I can provide an extra set of eyes and ears, and if it gets too dangerous I can retreat back to the cart."

Brom raised his eyebrows, "Surprisingly well thought-out, Damara." She scowled at him in return.

"No, I can't allow it." It went against everything Gilan had been trained to do; protect the citizens of the kingdom. There was a moment of tense silence as girl and ranger engaged in a fierce staring contest. Neither willing to concede.

It was only broken by Steven's exasperated words,"Well _I'm_ staying right here."

Gilan nodded at the Ox driver, then looked Damara up and down. At long last he sighed, "Very well, but if things even _begin_ to look unsafe you run back to the cart. Deal?"

"Deal."

With a grim look the ranger looked towards the trees, "Then let's go."

* * *

There was something striking about the girl, but before MacGilroy had time to dwell on her appearance they began advancing slowly towards the cottage. Well, all but the Ox driver who remained seated on the cart. The cloaked man had drawn his longsword and the scruffy one held his small crossbow loosely in his left hand. MacGilroy was confused as to why the girl came with them but it was of no matter. Even if the small caravan had been alerted to the danger, the Scotti scouts still had the element of unexpectedness- hidden among the trees it would be hard to deduce how many lie in wait.

The three drew past the open stable, making for the hut. After another few steps they had passed into the ambush and MacGilroy stood from his crouched position, brandishing his broadsword and charging forwards with the MacKentick battle cry.

His comrades followed suit, yelling and charging at the men whirling dirks and spiked clubs above their heads to strike fear into the enemy's hearts.

MacGilroy heard a grunt to his left and saw one of his men fall, clutching at a short-shafted dart that was lodged in his throat. Another across the way fell silently, the hilt of a throwing dagger lodged firmly in his chest. The scruffy archer reloaded his crossbow as the others reached the battleground, and then the close-quarter fighting that the Scotti specialized in, began.

MacGilroy smiled as his men began to gain the advantage. A small flurry of movement by the stables caught his eye and the commander turned to see the red haired girl crouching with a hand on the hilt of her daggers. She was wearing a knee length purple skirt and a white shirt with off-the-shoulder cap sleeves. A thick leather belt completed the gyptic look.

MacGilroy, smiling at the easy kill, made his way towards her.

* * *

Gilan had only barely managed to use his throwing dagger before the ambushers were on top of them. As he parried an overhead blow from a club, the ranger saw that these men weren't ordinary highway robbers. Each man had blue face paint that surrounded their eyes, and continued around their head in a mask-like way.

Scotti.

With a curse, Gilan thrust forwards, feeling the blade bite deep into the gut of the club-wielder. Withdrawing his weapon, the man fell, clutching at the gaping wound. Gilan had no time to rest however as two more opponents quickly engaged with the ranger. Fighting two opponents at once was a daunting task, even for the most skilled of Araluen knights. But Gilan had been trained under MacNeil for ten years, one of Araluen's most renowned sword masters.

With a clash of steel on steel Gilan fended off the two dirk wielders. He matched them blow for blow, slash for slash, parry for parry. On an individual level the ranger's skill far outpaced the two Scotti. But they had the upper hand when it came to numbers and soon, Gilan found himself on the defensive. A whizzing noise told him that Brom had taken another shot, but- in fear of hitting his comrade or inaccuracy- the shot missed, flying wide and embedding itself into a nearby treetrunk.

As the bard cursed, reloading, Gilan slipped on a patch of ice and flailed wildly in an attempt to regain his balance. Seeing the opening, one of the Scotti slashed downwards; Gilan felt the blade rip through his jerkin sleeve, slicing his upper right forearm. Hissing at the sting, Gilan quickly switched the longsword to his left hand, another tactic he'd learned from his teacher, and cut horizontally at the opponent.

Startled by the hand switch the Scotti found he was in no position to parry and quickly darted to the side, only to have his eyes widen as the ranger performed a backhand side, the blade's momentum changing as it sliced through the Scotti's leather armor like butter. The Scotti went down.

Gilan, again, didn't have time to admire his handiwork, promptly throwing up a close guard to defend against the second attacker. Now, without the aide of his comrade, this Scotti was forced to press his advantage, circling to the right and forcing the ranger on the defensive once more as he struck at the weakened arm. Gilan could feel the steady flow of blood from the wound as he fought, and realized the cut wasn't as deep as he'd feared. An idea formed in his mind and as the Scotti lunged, thrusting the dirk towards the injured arm; with his right hand, Gilan unsheathed his saxe knife and stepped towards his opponent, meeting the man mid stroke and plunging the long blade into his chest. The sudden right-armed attack worked, and Gilan let go of the hilt, the man's deadweight bringing him crashing to the ground where the snow was soon tinted red. The ranger's arm throbbed in protest of his previous action.

But the fight wasn't over as _another_ Scotti burst into the battleground from _inside_ the cottage. The spiked club he wielded swung down in a murderous arc towards Gilan's exposed back, and the ranger turned in surprise, struggling to throw up a hasty, left-handed guard.

 _Whiizzz-smack!_

The club dropped from the warrior's hand and the light died from his eyes as he crumpled face first to the ground. A thick black bolt could be seen embedded in his back.

Gilan looked over to see Brom casually blowing imaginary dust off of his crossbow.

The two men stood wearily among the chaos of the brief skirmish, both feeling the rush of adrenalin fade from their system. Gilan inspected the cut on his arm and was reassured to see that his suspicion was right, it was but a flesh wound. Before he had time to think about dressing it, an angry bellow emerged from the stables.

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_ _ **  
**_

 _ **Hope you guys liked it- Sorry for the cliffhanger style ending (actually, not really ;P). Spoiler alert! You'll find out what happens to Damara next chapter and may I just say, it will be a very CHANcy fight between MacGilroy and Damara and the ladder will pull off some really cool moves.**_

 _ **That all the hints you get ;)**_

 _ **Since no one reviewed last chapter- though, to be fair I did publish these rapid fire- I don't have any final things to say except the usual.**_

 _ **So, as always- please review! Your comments and criticisms are welcomed and awaited!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	8. Ladders and Riddles

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **I'm a little later than I planned because- to be honest- the fighting scenes took a LOT longer to describe than I'd thought.**_

 _ **Oh well, but it's now complete! Nothing to say today really (does anyone even read these little authors notes anyway?)**_

 _ **Please enjoy Chapter 8 of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger,**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

Damara watched as the Scotti emerged from the woods, and engaged with the ranger and the bard. She crouched, hand wavering over her blades while she kept her eyes peeled. Seeing a Scotti emerge from the woods she called out to Brom but the man had already swung his crossbow up, firing a bolt into his throat. There was the unmistakable sound of blade on blade as the ranger engaged with two dirk wielders.

Feeling unneeded, Damara backed away towards the stables, remaining in her defensive stance. A crunch of snow made her glance to the left to see a Scotti; but this man was different from the others. Half of his face was painted in the blue symbols of the MacKentick clan, and he held a massive broadsword loosely in one hand. Strapped to the other arm was a small studded shield with the MacKentick coat of arms- a red lion wearing a golden crown on a field of white. He stepped closer and Damara realized that his target was none other than herself. He had chosen the easy target while his men engaged with the real threats.

He was a coward and a fool.

Damara knew her little knives wouldn't hold out in a one-on-one clash with the gargantuan broadsword, so instead the girl stood, unsheathing the blade and making to throw it at the approaching Scotti. It worked, the man throwing up his shield in defense.

His vision impaired, Damara turned and ran into the stables, re-sheathing the blade. As she entered the ten by five meter space, her eyes quickly skimmed over the area. On the right were three stalls, each with their own mounting block and pail: however, only the northernmost bucket was filled with water. A hard maple ladder leaned against the wall nearby. At the other end of the stable was a sizable stack of hay, next to which was a manure fork and some heavy looking feed bags.

In the ten seconds it took for Damara to take in the environment, the Scotti outside had cursed loudly for falling for the girls trick. With a renewed sense of fury he chased her into the stables. Damra was waiting in the middle stall, one foot on the mounting block. Something about her confident stance made MacGilroy hesitate, then his fury took over his caution and he charged, swinging the sword down in a deadly arc that would cleave the girl from noggin to nave.

Damara easily avoided the blow by boosting herself over the short divider, using the mounting block to add to the height of her flip. She landed on the straw covered floor and moved towards the back of the stable. Not dextrous enough to perform the same feat, MacGilory cursed the infuriating girl as he moved to re-engage. He smiled at her naivete, she'd only run from one dead end into another. This time, he approached slowly, giving the girl no chance to escape.

A grin pulled at her lips as she snatched up the water pail and threw it towards the Scotti's face. MacGilroy threw up his shield and felt the hard wood shudder from the impact, water dousing the surface and splashing over the top. Again the Scotti found his vision was impaired, and thus had no time to avoid the staggering blow as the girl picked up and smashed the mounting blocks into his legs.

The pine wood shattered on impact and Damara let go of the item, rushing past her opponent as he stumbled into the stall post.

She grabbed the ladder with a grunt- it was heavier than it looked- and turned to see MacGilroy regain his feet. The murderous glint in his eyes made the small girl smile. Like all of the stout, northern race, the man was prone to bouts of furious rage which tended to cloud one's judgement.

MacGilroy, for his part, saw the girl smirk and was enraged. How dare she make him look a fool. With a guttural growl he stood and lunged, the blade snaking forwards. His quick recovery caught the girl by surprise, and she barely danced to the side to avoid the honed edge; the bangles and beads jangling as she evaded the attack. Pulling back, the Scotti jumped to the side to avoid the ladder as it was swung at his feet. The girl, holding it near the middle, thrust it towards him. The extra length made it difficult to evade and MacGilroy let out an Uumph as the endcaps poked his ribs.

The attack didn't really hurt, it was more aggravating than anything, as the girl backed up towards the more spacious side of the barn. She flipped the ladder long ways and held it at chest height; her smug face showing between the two beams.

The broadsword flashed in an uppercut and Damara twisted so the ladder went vertical, the blade biting into the wood. With a harsh tug it came free and this time MacGilroy thrust it through the rung towards the girls midriff. Damara easily avoided the blow by moving to the side but this time she kept the ladder where it was so that his motion carried the sword through the hole. Moving quickly Damara then ran _towards_ the Scotti, pulling the ladder up through his arm and effectively smashing the upper rod into his nose.

MacGilroy reeled back, his nose running with blood as his instinctively watering from the impact. When the reactionary tears cleared he saw that the girl had repositioned herself and was now running towards him with the head of the ladder aimed at his midriff. She was too close for MacGilroy to try and evade the attack so the Scotti braced himself, holding the sword out in front and letting out a fierce battle cry.

The honed edge sliced through the first two rungs easily but got caught in the third, the momentum from the charge driving him back against the stable wall and pinning him there. His sword fell to the ground with a clang. The girl had let the ladder drop, pulling out her blades as she ducked underneath the wooden brace. The Scotti felt a tingling sensation in his belly and looked down in horror to see the butterfly blade protruding from his gut. He instantly recognised the hilt and looked up at the red-haired girl. Now he realized why she had looked familiar.

"You're-" The Scotti's words were cut off as the second blade sliced his throat.

"I win." Damara muttered softly as Gilan and Brom raced around the edge of the stable.

* * *

Gilan and Brom had both raced towards the roaring noise in the stable, weapons brandished, ready to slay whatever threat they found... only to find the girl- Damara- stepping back from a limp Scotti figure, a bloodstained blade held in each hand. The right side of the barn was in shambles, with a dented pail lying next to the shattered remains of a mounting block. The stalls themselves were in varying levels of demolished and the ladder that pinned the Scotti to the wall was snapped in various places and seemed to be missing a few rungs.

Damara looked up at them amidst the carnage and Gilan was shocked by her expressionless mask. It was quickly replaced by a raised eyebrow.

"Are we done here?" She asked, walking over to one of the hay bales and cleaning the daggers off.

"I thought I told you to head back to the cart if we got into trouble." Gilan said angrily.

"I was heading back to the cart." Damara replied, "But then Mac-Blue-Face got in my way. So I decided to make him move."

"You could've been _killed_."

"But I'm not." Damara gave him a hard look, "So I don't see the problem." At his silence she re-sheathed the weapon, and now Gilan saw the cleverly concealed holster underneath the top layer of her skirt. "I'll go tell Steven he's clear to bring the cart over."

The two men watched her leave, waving to the Ox driver. Brom looked over the result of the stable brawl and declared,"Now _that_ would've made for a great legend. Why am I _always_ in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"A heroic tale indeed." Gilan frowned, "Didn't you say she was a waitress back in Hawkentown." At the minstrels nod his brow furrowed deeper, "Where does a waitress learn to fight like that?"

"Not sure. Why don't you try asking her? I'm sure she'd _love_ to tell you all about it."

Gilan rolled his eyes, "You know, Brom, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. In fact, it's not even wit at all." But the questioned remained firmly in his mind; There was something more to this girl, another side of her that he'd only now seen. He'd be keeping a closer eye on her in the future. Yet, another question stood out more amongst his cacophony of riddles and he looked back down at the blue faced northern man.

 _What were Scotti doing in Araluen?_

* * *

 ** _Fin!_**

 ** _Looking back on it this chapter's kind of short... hrm... truthfully this one should've been with the previous one but I was having trouble describing the ladder fight scene so I decided to sleep on it and write it today._**

 ** _And for those of you who were wondering what my hints were referring to it was the scene in the movie "First Strike" where Jackie Chan used a ladder to fight off some goons so I give credit for the idea to that movie._**

 ** _Again no new reviews so no final things to cover._**

 ** _I probably wont post again for a few days (I'll be working on longer chapters for you guys so Yay!) But just so you know this fanfic is up to 385 views!_**

 ** _I'm stoked! Thank you all for continuing to read! As always I await your comments and critiques with enthusiasm!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	9. A Stranger in the Snow

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **You've officially broken 400-and-30-some-odd views! So thank you for making my day :D**_

 _ **A few shoutouts:**_

 _ **First to Stormrunner74 and Taz taz: Thank you both for following the story! I was ecstatic to see that there are now 3 followers :) Special thanks to Stormrunner74 for beeing a fan of BOTH of my stories- that is AWESOME! And special thanks to Taz taz for being the first to favorite this fanfic!**_

 _ ***Deep breath* Phew- okay, I've calmed down ^_^**_

 _ **Yesterday was clean-the-house day so that's why I didn't post. But, regardless, the next installment has been completed! Please enjoy Chapter 9 of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

"I've got it!" Brom cried.

Steven looked over and raised his eyebrows at the outburst. "You've got what?"

Brom smacked the journal he'd been bent over with an open hand, "I've finally finished the ballad of our riverside skirmish." A triumphant smile beamed from his face. For the better part of three days the minstrel had been bent over that book, muttering to himself and humming, them fiercely shaking his head and scribbling out bits and pieces.

Steven chuckled, "Well then let's hear it."

Brom cleared his throat, took a deep breath and sang:

" _There once was a caravan daring and brave,_

 _carrying supplies to Macindaw's aid,_

 _The Ox driver Steven and a ranger quite tall,_

 _but the fair red-haired maiden was the fiercest of all._

 _._

 _At the side of the river where the barge raft did rest,_

 _was an ambush that put our heroes to the test,_

 _The ranger Gilan defeated five foes,_

 _with a throwing knife and longsword he needed no bow._

 _._

 _But then a great crash from the stables was heard,_

 _a shout of unintelligible angry words,_

 _The ranger raced over to see what he could do,_

 _but no help was needed the battle was through._

 _._

 _The ladder was smashed and the stables a mess,_

 _and the blue-faced Scotti was dead- I contest,_

 _The skirmish was over our heroes had won,_

 _but who was the girl whose praise was to be sung?_

 _._

 _O' Damara, Damara a maiden so fair,_

 _with sapphire eyes and fiery red hair,_

 _The travelling beauty with a soft spoken whim,_

 _whose tongue was so sharp it made one's head spin._

 _._

 _O' Damara, Damara a maiden so true,_

 _Who fought with her wits and a sharpened blade too,_

 _The travelling beauty is more than she seems,_

 _She always has a comeback up her sleeve._ "

At the song's conclusion he took a bow- or, as much of a bow as he could while seated astride Bartholemule. Steven clapped heartily and Damara rolled her eyes. Gilan looked back with a raised eyebrow.

"I didn't defeat five of them." He said, "If memory serves you yourself took out half of the men."

"A minstrel _never_ sings about his own deeds." Brom said seriously. He broke the solemn words by adding, "There would be too much to write about if we did."

* * *

The figure watched from the far bank as the caravan crossed the Tulay bridge. For the past three days they had been travelling up the river to reach the other crossing point. They rarely stopped and when they did, it was for only a short period of time. Meals were eaten in the saddle and even through a good portion of the night the caravan travelled. The figure was hunched over awkwardly as he watched the group cross the wooden structure and continue along the road unimpeded.

Silently he followed them, staying downwind of the horse and oxen.

The bard soon launched into a jaunty song about blue-faced men and a girl. The figure ignored the tune- minstrels were a strange breed as he well knew- and instead focused on the black and white ranger cloak. There was something familiar about it. The way it blended into the snowy landscape and confused his gaze. It was strikingly familiar to the clothing of a particular jongleur.

Before long the caravan stopped for the night and the figure halted as well, observing as they set up camp before turning and weaving through the thin, winding forest trails. He soon disappeared into the darkening shadows.

* * *

"We should be a day's ride out from Castle Macindaw." Gilan said that night around the small cooking fire. The sun had set nearly two hours ago and Gilan had finally called the caravan to a rest. The ranger had been reluctant to use the forced march pace, but he felt it was necessary to push on in order to regain lost time. So for the past few days they'd been travelling more and resting less; raising the concern that the commoners might not be able to keep up.

But Steven and Damara had yet to complain. Granted, there were bags forming under their eyes, but at Gilan's statement they both perked up.

"So we'll be staying in an actual _bed_ tomorrow." Damara said, spooning another dollop of beef stew into her bowl.

"My back sure ain't complaining." Steven said with a smile.

"Hear, hear," the minstrel poured himself some more coffee; the brew had become a staple of this trip, the young ranger never seemed to drink enough of it and appeared to have an endless supply. "I'm getting too old for this camping out lark."

Gilan took a deep swig of the brew, the warm liquid soothing his insides while the wind whipped around them. The tops of the tall evergreens swayed frantically in the gales. Looking back down at the Ox driver, Gilan continued, "Now of course, once the supplies are delivered, you are free to return back to Caraway, Steven. However," Gilan added, before the man could draw breath, "I can't promise any form of protection for the return trip. All fighting men are needed at Macindaw so I doubt there will be guardsmen to spare; and the presence of Scotti at the Cohmla crossing worries me. Naturally you would be more than welcome to stay at the castle or in the lower village."

Steven was already shaking his head, "I appreciate the offer ranger, but I'm needed back with my wife- those kids are a handful." He chuckled, rubbing his beard, "But I've been considering my options these past few days and decided I'd head east to Marshwood Fief."

"Marshwood?" Gilan raised his eyebrows, "That would put you north of the Caraway Ciffs."

"Aye," Steven nodded, "If I cross at Headsbridge it should be a straight shot home."

Gilan nodded, "A sound plan." He was surprised he didn't think of it himself.

"What was that!"

Everyone looked over at Damara's call, their gaze quickly diverting to the edge of the woods where she pointed. In the dark of night, not fifteen meters away, the tall pines formed a solid wall of black accented with stripes of light-barked tree trunks. The camp was silent as they watched and listened, straining their ears and eyes. After three minutes, Gilan drew breath to ask the girl what the devil she was talking about, but then they all saw it.

A blue light, suspended ten meters above the ground that moved horizontally along the treeline before fading out of existence.

Brom reached for his crossbow but Gilan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Glancing at the bay horse, the ranger saw that Blaize was quietly grazing at what little grass he could find peeking out from the snow. The horse had made no reaction to the light. Which meant one of two things: one- the light wasn't a threat, or two- the light wasn't real. As the group watched with baited breath another blue light appeared, this time moving vertically up and down twice before fading.

"What is it?" Brom asked, voicing everyone's question aloud.

Something pulled in the background of the rangers mind. He had heard of this phenomenon before… somewhere, by someone. With a jolt of remembrance he quickly pulled out a map, locating their position. The fog faded from his mind and Gilan looked up at his companions.

"It's the Grimsdell woods."

* * *

After realizing the lights were nothing more than an illusion, Brom sauntered over to where Damara was busy setting up her tent. Without a word he picked up a corner flap and began helping her set it up. The girl rolled her eyes at him, muttering something about 'men' and them being an 'annoyance'.

Brom worked his way around the tarp until he and the girl were working side by side, then he said, "So what's a Scotti like you doing in Araluen?" Damara's hands froze for a brief moment in what they were doing, but Brom caught the pause, smiling. "So I was right."

Damara muttered a curse under her breath, "How could you tell."

"The red hair was a big giveaway." Brom said quietly, "Though not impossible, Araluen's tend to range from a blond to dark brown spectrum. Scotti, on the other hand, are primarily red or reddish-brown haired. You're also skilled in combat even though you were only a simple barmaid in Hawkentown; Although your profession doesn't pertain much to your heritage. But the big giveaway was your daggers." Brom concluded, "The hilt design is unique to the Scotti, and since they don't fancy trading with Araluen, I doubt you bought it in some local market."

The girl cursed again.

"Two for two then," Brom smiled, "So I'll ask again, what's a Scotti doing in Araluen?"

Damara's face was a mask, the minstrel's brow contracted as he found she could be difficult to read when she so chose. After another moment of silence the girl sighed, "I'm heading home."

"Well obviously, seeing as you're of Scotti descent-"

"No," Damara looked him in the eye, "I mean I'm heading back to my family. They sent me to Araluen in the hopes I'd have a better life. But with the Scotts and Pictians inciting a war I felt it best to return home. After all, even if I want no part in it, the mere mention of my heritage could make me an enemy." Damara looked down, driving the final stake into the icy ground. "So I'm going home _before_ that happens."

Brom frowned at her. The girl's story sounded sincere, and her eyes hadn't given away any tell-tale signs of lying. But some sixth sense was telling the minstrel her story was in fact, false. Before he had time to follow up on it, a clap of thunder rolled across the sky.

* * *

"You want us to go _in there_?" Steven's eyes were wide, "Where that light was?"

"Yes!" Gilan had to shout over the wind, "The trees will shelter us from the storm." He looked back to see Brom and Damara bringing up the rear.

The snowstorm had been on them quickly, Gilan cursed himself for not realizing the tell-tale signs earlier. Cold winds, the swaying tree tops, thunderstorm clouds. Though that final one would've been hard to see in the dark. The treeline was only five meters away now, nearly invisible through the veil of white snow. It seemed to take forever but they finally reached the edge of the forest. The difference was night and day; outside, a raging snowstorm, inside, a gusty, but otherwise calm, clearing. The four of them moved deeper into the woods, following a thin trail until the cart could go no further. Only then did they all collapse, exhausted.

Brom and Steven set up a ragged shelter and plopped down underneath it; the Ox driver curled into his sleeping bag and was soon snoring as loudly as the snowstorms gales. Damara remained in the cart, rearranging some furs and curling up like a feline, her breathing soon slow and even. The two remaining men glanced at each other. Brom waved his hand in a shooing motion.

"Get some rest, I'll keep first watch."

Gilan didn't even bother setting up his tent, he just rolled himself into his cloak and fell asleep.

When he woke up there was the distinct aroma of coffee wafting through the air. With a tired smile, Gilan yawned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He looked around and saw that the others were still in a deep slumber; Steven snored happily, Damara was quietly napping, and Brom had fallen asleep leaning against a tree, his head hanging down to his chest.

Blinking, Gilan frowned. _So then, who had made the coffee?_

"Good morning, ranger." A voice said from behind him, "Would you mind telling me what the devil you're doing in my woods?"

* * *

 _ **Fin!**_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **First, to FreeRuner: You woke up with 3 new chapters, and I woke up with 3 AMAZING new reviews! One of which was your encouraging compliment :) I'm glad you liked the fight scenes, for a moment I was worried they'd be too hard to follow, so I'm very glad you enjoyed it. I can't wait to write more ^_^ Thanks for the continued support!**_

 _ **Next, to Stormrunner74: One, thank you for having read both my fanfictions! I should be posting on the other one later today ;) YOU CAUGHT THE EASTER EGG! Yaasss! I'm glad you noticed it. Glendyss was a fanservice to you readers- as I explained in chapter 2, I like working with underdeveloped cannons so I decided to give the poor Celt a family since he was so helpful to Will and co in "The Burning Bridge". I cheered when I saw you'd picked up on that. Damara is a badass, I love her so much. Yes, more inside jokes to come- I just need to find good places to insert them. And unfortunately no, Keren was not the figure following our heroes. This fanfic takes place AFTER books 5-6 and Keren specifically dies at the end of the latter by falling through the tower window. After having his face burnt off with acid... but I digress. Lastly, I'm happy to say that you're on the right track with the stone. It's not Kerens, but you've all but nailed the tactic Damara uses with her Lapis necklace. I'm am SO glad you are enjoying this story and I hope you continue to review ^_^**_

 _ **Actually there are a few fanservice Easter eggs I've already included. If you haven't seen them yet they include...**_

 _ **1)The song aout the drunken king of angledart**_

 _ **2)Glendyss and the references to Book 2**_

 _ **3)The phrase "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."**_

 _ **4) The line about the jongleur and the last line of this chapter as a hint as to the next cannon character introduction**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **That's all for now, Fathers day weekend approaches so I will try to get a new chapter out but if not, look for one the following Monday or Tuesday.**_

 _ **As always I encourage you to review and comment and rant or whatever pleases you!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	10. Familiar Faces

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **I hope you all enjoyed your weekend! I'm really sore from the National Guard Drill this past weekend _ blah...**_

 _ **It was actually quite fun, we learned about IED's and land navigation and moving as a squad. Some reaaalllyy cool stuff. Plus a lot of push ups for making the Drill Sergeants angry ;P**_

 _ **But back to Fanfiction! Here it is, chapter 10, the long awaited continuation. I will be busy these next few weeks getting ready for basic training but I will try to continue to post regularly every few days. ^_^**_

 _ **Shouout to Saitama-Sensei: Thanks for being follower #4! and the second Favorite-r!**_

 _ **Thank you all for bearing with me and my complicated life schedule! THANK YOU THANK YOU!**_

 _ **So please enjoy Chapter 10 of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Theif, and the Ranger!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

 _ **p.s. I saw Finding Dory yesterday- such a great movie!**_

* * *

Ranger Meralon bent down and brushed his fingers along the snowy ground. Along with grains of the fine white powder was a dusty black substance that stained his skin as he rubbed his fingertips together.

Ash.

He stood up, brushing snow from his trousers and inspecting the remains of the Scotti campsite. The northern barbarians hadn't covered their tracks at all, their campsite had been recently moved east, the only remnants being a burnt out fire pit and the tell-tale ring of black ash encircling the campsite.

Meralon scowled, after the events at Castle Macindaw last winter, he had been assigned to stay in the god-forsaken garrison to ensure that the Scotti threat was successfully deterred. And now, over a year later, trouble was brewing once more. For a brief moment he thought longingly of his cozy cabin back at Norgate; a small, warm cottage with a coffee pot always ready at hand. Instead he was out in Picta's northern wasteland of a country, sleeping on the cold ground and freezing his bum off.

"Sir?"

Not to mention babysitting a patrol of bumbling half-wits. "What?" Meralon snapped.

The Alpha Platoon Commander, unfazed by the ranger's distasteful tone, saluted, "Sir, we think we found something."

The soldier led Meralon over to the east trail, where dozens of footprints clashed in the snow. There was also evidence of mounts, with various hooved animals marking the trail with their heavy footfalls. A pair of rivulets ran parallel to the trail, an indication of some kind of cart or wagon being drawn through the terrain. Upon arriving at the camp Meralon had seen the disturbances and ordered two of the men under his jurisdiction to go investigate where it was heading; as well as to make sure that no Scotti had lingered behind.

Now the Platoon Commander brought the ranger down the same path, pausing every so often to check their surroundings, as his training had dictated. Meralon rolled his eyes at every pause. If there was any danger in the area, he- as a ranger- would no doubt be able to sense and cope with possible threats.

"Can we pick up the pace." He said irritably, brows furrowing as the Commander implicitly refused a response. At last they came upon the two soldiers who'd been sent to investigate. They were currently stationed on either side of the path, swords drawn in defensive positions. The ground around them had been churned with fresh snow from moving around, and there were ominous red stains scattered around the site.

Immediately, Mearlon was alert, feeling a worm of doubt slip into his confidence about dealing with any threat. Even a dozen Scotti barbarians could make a dent in a small platoon; and Meralon, like all rangers, only carried two dozen arrows on their person, with another dozen on their mounts. But it appeared his fears weren't well founded, and the soldiers were merely providing security to the area; as they quickly came to attention to salute their Commander.

Angry at himself for feeling such irrational fear, Mearon scowled at the Platoon Commander, "So what was it you wanted me to so desperately see?"

The Commander frowned internally. He had been assigned to Meralon for the past year and was well accustomed to the crotchety, sarcastic man's responses. But just because he was used to it didn't quite mean the soldier approved of Meralon's attitude. The ranger had little respect to those he considered 'beneath' him, and even smaller regard to those who doubted his abilities.

Showing great restraint that he'd developed under Meralon's command, the Platoon leader gestured to a deep, wide groove in the ground. "This, sir."

The ranger gave a sweeping glance over the area. It was clear there was some kind of skirmish here. The signs of battle were easy to see. As were the pawprints of some beast- most likely a wolf.

"So there was a battle here. So what? Commander, I thought I told your men to look for things other than the obvious." But even as he uttered the scathing words the ranger could tell there was more to the story. He inspected the deep groove, noting the sprinkling of splintered wood along the track.

Something was clearly being dragged away. By the shape of the depression it was something heavy, possibly a crate? A barrel? A body? Meralon would be hard-pressed to say. Further along the trail was a thin line of black substance, barely visible if not for it's stark contrast to the white and red stained ground.

"We don't think it's ash, sir." The Commander supplied.

"I can _see_ that." Meralon replied. This powder was much coarser than the smooth, fine ash encircling the camp.

So then what could it be? The question mulled around in the rangers mind for a minute or two before he waved it away. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be something he could be expected to just figure out on the spot. So with that he turned with a swoosh of his cape and began heading back to the west. Lord Orman would know more in this field than he- a ranger- would. And besides, Meralon recalled that the castle lord was acquainted with a skilled herbalist. Or was it a healer? Either way, the powder wasn't of Ranger Meralon's concern anyhow; he was only sent for reconnaissance- not to solve jigsaw puzzles.

"Sir?"

"Take a sample of the black powder," Meralon shot back over his shoulder, "And then get back to the camp."

"Yes'sir." The Commander replied, saluting to the retreating back of the ranger.

* * *

Gilan's hand immediately dropped to his waist as he spun around, his fingers lingering by the side of his saxe knife. The man before him was small and thin, with wisps of thinning grey hair combed over a balding crown. A rather large nose and set of ears contrasted his slightly receding chin. Although the man was sitting down, he wore light robes of a simple, homespun brown- much like a monks- and he had sandals on his feet in spite of the wintery weather.

"Who are you?" Gilan asked, hesitating as he saw the man was not armed.

The monk rolled his hazel eyes skywards, muttering something that sounded strangely like an exasperated, "Rangers." With a sigh the man said, "My name is Malcolm, although I have been known as Malkallam in recent times past."

A wave of recognition rolled over the young ranger, "Malkallam the sorcerer?" He found himself saying; even though he knew Will had disproved such theories in his report.

The monk nodded, "Indeed."

A while back, Gilan's fellow ranger, Will Treaty, had been sent on assignment to Castle Macindaw to investigate rumors of sorcery. Instead, Gilan's friend had uncovered a dangerous plot to overthrow the late Lord Syron and poison his successor; all in order to allow the Scotti to invade Araluen.

Will had provided an extensive report to Crowley and Halt; so detailed- in fact- that it was quite possible to craft a book from it. Or two.

In that report, Will told of the aforementioned 'sorcerer' Malkallam, who was actually only a simple healer named Malcolm: a man who had aided in retaking the castle and nursing Lord Orman back to good health. Will's report had also mentioned that Malcolm denied residence in the neighboring town in favor of living in Grimsdell Woods- in a place named 'Healers Clearing'.

"So, if I may repeat myself," Malcolm began, drawing the young ranger out of his reprise, "what brings you to my woods?"

Gilan stood and moved over to pour himself some coffee as he answered, "We were driven in by last night's snowstorm."

The healer dismissed the words with a wave, "All very well and good, but what are you doing here. Or to put it better, what brings you this far north?"

Gilan hesitated, not sure if he could trust the man. Then he shrugged, there was nothing he could say that wasn't already common knowledge; moreover, he might be able to glean some insight from what the healer had to offer.

"We're bringing supplies to aid Macindaw."

Malcolm frowned, "Aid them for what?"

It was Gilan's turn to look perplexed, "You don't know? Picta and the Scotti are raiding Araluen's northern border."

Malcolm rubbed his chin, "No, I wasn't aware," He mused, "I've been out of contact with Lord Orman for the past few months."

So much for inside information.

"That sounds about right." Gilan said as he sat down across from the healer, sipping the warm brew and enjoying the fresh morning air. The rest of the caravan was still asleep, and Gilan and Malcolm had made an effort to keep it that way, sitting on the far side of the camp and talking in low tones.

"We got word of the attacks roughly three months ago. It was only recently that the letters became more urgent." The ranger frowned as a thought struck him, "How did you find us?"

If the healer was surprised by the abrupt topic change he masked it well, spreading his hands wide and inviting Gilan to look around, "You're in my woods." He said simply. Sensing this wasn't a suitable answer for the young ranger he elaborated.

"I don't live here all by my lonesome, you know." Malcolm said, giving Gilan a bemused expression. Explaining, "My people keep watch even in the far reaches of Grimsdell woods; Luka was the first one to see you a few days back. He returned with word that the jongleur was back and so I sent others to keep tabs on you."

Malcolm looked pointedly at the ranger's cloak. It was in the same fashion as the one Will Treaty had worn on his assignment.

"I see." The ranger said, although in truth, he hadn't seen anyone at all. Gilan was slightly cowed by the fact that he had been spied upon. As the Ranger Corp's master of unseen movement, Gilan was more used to _doing_ the spying, not the other way around.

Sensing the young man's discomfort, Malcolm smiled lightly, "Luka stayed a fair ways inside the tree line, and he knows enough about your horses to remain downwind."

His reassurance worked, and Gilan relaxed a bit, realizing that the thick woods would definitely aid in concealment. So the young ranger wasn't completely at fault for not noticing this 'Luka' person. But his wariness returned as Malcolm followed up with, "Luka's actually here right now. He's right over there."

Gilan followed the pointed finger, peering through the trees over his left shoulder. Faintly, amidst the many spindles of wood he saw a monster; a giant of a man with a chest as wide as Blaize's and an unnatural hunch to his shoulders that made them appear twisted and broken. When he felt the Rangers gaze the creature turned, moving nimbly through the tangle of trees with surprising agility.

Malcolm chuckled, "You'll have to forgive him, Luka's not very accustomed to strangers."

"So... your people, are they all... Like that?" Gilan ventured, tactfully avoiding the word 'monster'.

The healer nodded gravely, "Some even more so. They come to me as rejects. Driven from their homes because they are different. Disfigured." There was a subtle anger to his words, and Gilan had the sense that the healer had experienced the same kind of hatred. Though for what he couldn't know. For all intensive purposes he decided to tread carefully.

"And you care for them?"

"I do what I can." Malcolm replied. After a moment of contemplation he continued, seeming to have come to some kind of decision. "I am a healer, after all. It's my job. And if Macindaw is really facing trouble from the north as you say, I believe a healer's skills will soon be in high demand." The short man stood, dusting snow off of his lower robe. "I shall return to my home and prepare medicines, lord knows they'll need it."

Gilan stood as well, offering his hand to the healer, "Though I can't speak for him, I'm sure Lord Orman would welcome any support he can get. And any friend of Will's is a friend of mine."

"Indeed." Malcolm grasped the hand, "I shall join you at the castle when I can. Safe travels, Ranger."

"It's Gilan."

Malcolm nodded with a smile, "Very well then. Shall we meet again, Ranger Gilan."

* * *

 _ **Fin!**_

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **First to Stormrunner74: Yes! You were right, Malcolm has finally appeared. And you weren't totally wrong- You hit the nail on the head with Damara's fighting style ;) But no, the blue gem isn't the same one a certain rogue Knight used in Book 6. And Thanks for understanding ^_^ Sorry your CPU delays chapters- BAD computer! Hope you are able to read this as soon as it gets out there. Thanks for the continued support! I really do appreciate it. (p.s. yes, National Guard Drill is like marching band, with intensity times 10 ;)**_

 _ **Next, to FreeRunner: Yes, Malcolm has arrived! And is there another twist? You tell me ;) Do you think Malcolm is just playing innocent to the invasion or does he know? Is he an inside man for the Scotti? dun Dun DUN! Thanks for the review! Hope you liked this one :)**_

 _ **To Saitama-sensei: So glad you like it! I plan to continue the story as long as I can :) p.s. i see you like Noragami Fanfictions (I LOVE that anime ;)**_

 ** _Lastly, to Person: Your wait is over! Sorry it took so long, but thanks for sticking with it! I will heed your advice and post more often ^_^ Thanks for the review!_**

 ** _Alrightly guys (and gals)! That's all for today! As aforementioned I will be attempting to post more frequently, so I will see you soon! Thanks for the support!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	11. Jesters Jolly Jesting Just Jests

_**Hello readers!**_

 ** _This chapter was inspired by two oldies (movies that are old) called 'White Christmas' and 'The Court Jester'._**

 ** _If you ever have the chance to watch them they are AMAZING!_**

 ** _Without further delay, please enjoy Chapter 11 of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger._**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**

 ** _p.s. Does anyone read the chapter titles? Up there in the top right corner? No, just me? Okay... ^_^_**

* * *

Brom was never as glad to see a bed then he was when cantering through the gates of Castle Macindaw on the back of Bartholemule. His bum had been frozen- quite literally- in the saddle from the moment they'd started travelling after the snowstorm. As the minstrel shifted uncomfortably Bartholemule gave an appropriating snort, pawing the snow with his hooves.

As they rode across the heavy wood planking of the drawbridge, Brom had to be honest; the garrison was ugly. The dark, thickset walls seemed black amidst the pure white snowscape. Like most Castles, it was built on a small hill and the forest trees had been cut back on all four sides to prevent sneak attacks. Despite it's lack of aesthetic appeal, it was an effective design. The solid stone walls loomed at least five meters high, and towers positioned at each of the four corners added another meter or two to the overall height. As per the usual, a central keep soared above the rest of the garrison.

As the small caravan made it's trek to the central keep, Brom couldn't help gawking at the flurry of activity inside the compound. Men-at-arms scurried around like ants, never stopping as they carried various cargo from location to location. Across the yard a Drill Sergeant barked orders to a platoon of soldiers, leading them through a daily exercise. The castle was also uncharacteristically full; the Scotti raids having filled the med bay and half of the lower rooms, not to mention the influx of reinforcements from the surrounding feifs.

With a start, Brom realized he had fallen behind, spurring Bartholemule forwards with a light prod to his hindlegs. As he drew level with the others he heard Gilan finish speaking to the seneschal- the man who ran the day-to-day affairs of the garrison.

"Thank you, Agramond. I will head to Lord Orman's chambers after we are situated."

The seneschal nodded, scribbling something down on his clipboard and waving us along as he walked off. A commotion at the front gate caused the caravan to pause as a worn and weary platoon of men meandered across the drawbridge. A man seated astride a shaggy, barrel chested horse led them towards the keep, a dappled cloak situated around his shoulders and a longbow in hand. At the sight of the small caravan, the lead rider broke off with a word to the rest of the platoon. The soldiers made for the mess hall, some stretching sore limbs while others talked loudly of their recent outing.

The ranger drew level with the caravan, a cold gaze sweeping across the tired crew. Brom decided he didn't like the look of this man; he held himself in a way that suggested he was better and more entitled than anyone else. An upturned nose and haughty expression only solidified the minstrels judgement, and Brom's impression of the man only spiraled downward when the ranger opened his mouth.

"Who are you?" He said, directing the question towards Gilan.

The younger ranger was either used to the man's insulting manner or simply ignored the other rangers tone, replying, "Gilan. Ranger forty-two."

"Hrmph. Meralon. _Twenty-seven_." The man put a little stress on the number, to implicate his seniority. In fact, he wasn't. Aside from Crowley and a select command group of senior rangers, all members of the Ranger Corps were equal in rank. Their numbers were assigned as they became available, when other rangers retired or died. "You're Halt's apprentice, aren't you?" Meralon added disparagingly.

"Indeed I was." Gilan replied, his tone measured and calm.

"Why are you here?"

Gilan smiled openly, "Baron Fergus decided that you all could use a bit of help."

The older ranger ' _harrumphed_ ' looking around at the small group. " Yes, an ox driver, a wench, and-" His eyes lingered on Brom for a long moment, "A fool. Macindaw is saved."

Brom smiled at the man, "Seems to me the fool is the one who would openly deny aid at such a dire time."

Ranger Meralon flushed red. "Hold your tongue, jongleur! You are in the presence of the King's' Ranger."

Before Brom could reply Gilan nudged Blaize forwards, "What's the situation here?" He asked, directing the question to his fellow ranger.

"Situation?" Meralon frowned, "There is no _situation_. You must have missed the memo, Gilan, we have the Scotti on the run."

"What do you mean?"

Meralon smiled silkily, "You heard me, we have those northern bastards retreating back into their godforsaken lands. Three days ago they ceased their siege and turn tail, running away like the cowards they are."

Gilan was silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he looked up, inquiring, "Have you sent patrols along the southern border? They may be causing a diversion in the hills so a second force can sweep up from the south and flank the castle."

Meralon blinked, and it was clear to the minstrel that the ranger hadn't thought of that possible situation. After a hesitant moment he shrugged, as if the realization was of no concern.

"I'll get around to that one of these days." He said with a dismissive wave.

"With all due respect," Brom interjected, " when what's left of you gets around to what's left to be gotten, what's left to be gotten won't be worth giving whatever it is you've got left."

Meralon sputtered for a moment, his mind slowly trying to pick apart and understand the minstrels words. "I-I… You… I've got better things to do then listen to some fool jester." He finally managed to spit out.

"A foolish jester I may be but I never jest, else I be called a fool." Brom countered casually, folding his arms across his chest.

Without a word Meralon turned and spurred his horse towards the keep.

"How do you do that?"

Brom looked at Gilan innocently, "Do what?"

"Speak in such a confusing, roundabout manner."

"Ah…" Brom tapped the side of his nose, "Year and years of practice. You see, there's nothing round about it, in fact the confusion is only caused when the manner of the answer is not understood or followed due to the roundness of it all."

Gilan looked over at the bard, an eyebrow raised, "Do you have a comeback for every occasion?"

After a long thoughtful pause, Brom smiled, "Nope."

* * *

That evening there was a grand feast to welcome the new arrivals to Castle Macindaw. Brom, Steven, and Damara were all in attendance, having had time to rest and relax in their rooms while Gilan went to the Lord's office. The rooms were fairly standard accommodations. The floors and walls were stone, the ceiling made of timber. A narrow window, fitted with a translucent hide frame to allow half-light to filter through. A wooden shutter was propped next to it in case of severe weather and a small fireplace warmed the room.

When being shown to the room- by a woman of stoutly build- the Mistress had glanced at the instrument case.

"Play the mandola, do you?" she asked.

Brom smiled, "It's a lute, actually. It has ten strings instead of-"

"Whatever. I imagine you'll be playing tonight?" She seemed rather put off by the prospect.

With a shrug, Brom decided it would be better to keep the conversation short, "Only if m'Lord wishes it."

And at that cheery note the mistress moved to the door, "If you need anything just ask one of the serving girls. I'll send a pageboy to fetch you when dinner's ready."

In the hour or so of free time, Brom had taken a much needed shower and changed into some fresh clothes before being called to the dining hall. At the behest of the pageboy who came to fetch him, Brom brought his instrument to the dinner. The minstrel didn't mind the summon, he figured in the remote northern garrison music and fun was much more of a rarity than it was in any other fief.

The dinner hall was much like the rest of the castle, dark and drab, but sturdily constructed and warm. Banners hung from the rafters with depictions of coats of arms from Castle Macindaw, Norgate Fief, and the kingdom of Araluen.

After a time, the head table was introduced. The room stood as the small procession made it's way up to the raised table in the front of the hall.

First came the guests: Without his black-and-white cloak, Gilan appeared much more wiry than at first glance. Following him came Lord Orman, a man of medium height- perhaps thirty years old- dressed in a dark grey scholar's robe he appeared to prefer over the normal loud colors of a Lord's garb. After him came a thin steward and finally the Ranger Meralon and the garrison commander.

Despite the dull colors, Lord Orman smiled around the room filled with common soldiers, declaring, "My friends, good news hails from the south. Baron Fergus of Caraway has sent us a relief supply caravan. Thanks to Ranger Gilan and his brave crew we now have ample amounts of weapons and food to continue the fight against our northern foes."

Cheers erupted briefly around the room, quickly quieting as Lord Orman raised a hand.

"Since Macindaw creation we've drove the Scotti back from our border, and this everlasting fight won't end today in a Scotti victory!" His encouragement was contagious as the men at arms whooped, pounding the table vigorously. Lord orman let them carry on for a short while before calming the room once more.

"So tonight let us celebrate a renewed faith, in knowing that our southern allies have not forsaken us. I dare say, they are _counting_ on us to keep this wonderful country safe. And we will not let them down!"

With those motivational words Lord Orman and the rest of the head table took their seats, and servers rushed out to the tables to place steaming meals before the ravenous soldiers. The smoked ham and boiled vegetables were scarfed down, from soldiers and minstrels and ox drivers, wenches, lord's, stewards and ranger's alike.

As the servers whisked away the empty plates, Lord Orman glanced towards Gilan. He stood and said, "It is to my knowledge we are privileged to have an entertainer with us."

The soldiers muttered amongst themselves, looking around for the flamboyant dressing of the typical jongleur. Brom smiled to himself as he stood, grabbing his lute and walking to the front of the dining hall where a small floor had been cleared. He made a flourishing bow to the Lord, hearing the men at arms whisper to one another, pointing to the plain-robed man.

"If it will please my lord," the minstrel began, "I am known to the world as Ebrommius Garrik, although, to make things easier for m'Lord, I am also known simply as Brom. I am a simple minstrel, having travelled far and wide to share with you songs of love, laughter and adventure."

"No faint chance that you might know something of the classics? Some of the greater music?" Lord Orman asked, a smile in his eyes. Before Brom could reply the Lord continued, "Well, then, I suppose we must endure the inevitable. Perhaps my people will find some enjoyment in your performance?"

The question was addressed to the soldiers and they laughed, applauding politely.

Brom got the feeling he was the target of some inside joke, but then he realized it was of no consequence. So with a light laugh he played along, "I hope they find enjoyment in my humble tales as well. Heaven knows they need _something_ to laugh about in this dreary old tomb- I mean, Castle."

After a test strum, Brom looked around the room. A hundred pairs of eyes waited expectantly, unsure of this new entertainer's skill level. Brom smiled inwardly, typically, a bard was to always save the best song for last- but with such an invested crowd, how could he deny them anything but his very best.

Brom cleared his throat:

.

 _"When I was a lad I was gloomy and sad_

 _And I was from the day I was born_

 _When other lads giggled and gurgled and wiggled_

 _I proudly was loudly forlorn_

 _My friends and my family looked at me clammily_

 _Thought there was something amiss_

 _So they send for a witch with a terrible twitch_

 _To ask how my future impressed her_

 _She took one look at me and cried hehehehehe, he?_

 _What else could he be but a jester?_

 _._

 _No butcher no baker no candlestick maker_

 _And me with the look of a fine undertaker_

 _Impressed her... as a jester?_

 _._

 _Now where could I learn any comical turn_

 _That was not in a book on the shelf_

 _No teacher to take me and mold me and make me_

 _A merryman fool or an elf_

 _But I'm proud to recall that in no time at all_

 _With no other recourses but my own resources_

 _With firm application and determination_

 _I made a fool of myself!_

.

Brom plucked at various strings as he staggered around, bumping into tables and chairs and patrons as the occupants hooted with merriment. Soon he was back in the center of the floor, grinning as he continued the song:

.

 _I started to travel to try to unravel_

 _My mind and to find a new chance_

 _When I got to Toscana I saw with a glance_

 _That the field that appealed was the dance_

 _The Toscanas were clannish but I wouldn't vanish_

 _I learned every step they had planned_

 _The first step of all isn't hard to recall_

 _Cause the first step of all is to stand…_

 _And stand…_

 _And stand…_

.

Brom looked around the empty floor and then cleared his throat. "Rodrigues, pronto reproducir rápidamente la canción que hemos practicado por mi señor"

With that he played an intricate lich on his lute, his fingers dancing along the strings. The music began to accel and with every passing second the pace increased until it was simply a rapid strumming of every note. With a flair Brom paused, hand raised as his notes rang around the hall. Then he raised his foot dramatically, all the patrons leaning forwards, expecting to watch some marvelous footwork from the well-travelled man. Brom stomped the ground and immediately howled, hopping around on his good foot," _Ahooo_!"

The hall roared with glee, hooting and hollering as the minstrel hobbled back to the center of the floor, standing straight once more and plucking the strings. With a deep breath he continued the tale:

.

 _I sadly decided that dancing as I did_

 _To sing was a thing that was sure_

 _I found me a teacher a crotchety creature_

 _Who used to sing coloratura_

 _She twisted my chin pushed my diaphragm in_

 _With a poker she vocalized me_

 _When she said it was best that I threw out my chest_

 _You may gather that rather surprised me_

 _._

 _As I started my song my voice it was strong_

 _But my stomach I fear was not so_

 _When I fell overboard how his majesty roared_

 _It was really a sight to befell_

 _And before a siesta he made me his jester_

 _And I found out soon that to be a buffoon_

 _Was a serious thing as a rule_

 _For a jester's chief employment_

 _Is to kill himself for your enjoyment_

 _And a jester unemployed… is nobody's fool!"_

.

The last note held until Brom ran out of air, the minstrel taking a sweeping bow as applause and whistling exploded in the hall. Their cheering lasted for five minutes straight, never varying in volume. Brom took a second bow, then another. Only after his third time bending at the waist did the room slowly start to settle.

Looking back at the Lord, Brom smiled, "I rather think they enjoyed it, m'Lord."

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **If you had trouble reading the song just look up 'The court jester- a jester' on Youtube.**_

 _ **Final things,**_

 _ **To Starmrunner74: Can I start calling you Sherlock? How about Watson? Maybe I was too obvious, but if you think of the time period it wouldn't be a common item. We'll see where it goes, who knows ;) Thanks for the review!**_

 _ **That's all for today.**_

 _ **OH! And to all my readers, THANK YOU!**_

 _ **We are now over 600 views for this little story I started a month ago. My immense thanks to everyone who's read up until now.**_

 _ **As always I encourage you to review and comment- I BEG of you, please drop me some kind of hint as to what you thought (again, I can't read minds).**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	12. Rallying in the North

**_Hello readers!_**

 ** _I'm BACK! And better than ever! Kind of... my deepest apologies for the extended hiatus. I expected to be publishing a chapter or two after Army basic training, but it turns out that Army advanced training was just as time consuming- most of my free time was spent catching up on sleep. I hope you can forgive the delay._**

 ** _EDIT: Huge HUGE shoutout to Guest (Cass). Woke up with several new reviews this morning (26 JUN 2017). Made me tear up a bit- okay, a lot ;P keep 'em coming! Thanks SO much :D (and feel free to write Hamilton lyrics whenever you want. I'm a big fan of the musical ;). I'll respond to your reviews officially in Chapter 21. Thanks again!_**

 ** _I will not keep you any longer_** _ **(shoutouts will be at the end).**_ ** _Here is the much awaited next chapter of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger._**

 ** _Enjoy!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**

* * *

The moon didn't shine that night. The waters of the Marshwood river were dark, reflecting only the orange glow of the camp's many fires. An occasional ripple would traverse the tributary as the half dozen warships rocked to and fro, sending the light particles flitting atop the surface. The orange glow illuminated the amber wood of the ship's, dancing along the largest boat's masthead- a fierce carved lion baring its teeth into the darkness. Long shadows were cast among the rows of tents pitched between the shoreline and the woods edge.

A dozen kilted scotti warriors patrolled the outskirts of their camp, remaining within a thick black line of ash that encircled the camp. Where the ash was thin due to wind or wild animals, the patrol would carefully remove a pouch at their waist, adding more of the black substance to the perimeter before moving on.

"I tell you we should be worried about beings of flesh moreso than demons of shadow." McIntosh growled as he surveyed the setup from a raised central dias. Behind the elevated platform was a large command tent, checkered black and blue in the colors of his brother's clan. "We are running out of time." McIntosh said for the umpteenth time.

"Patience, my brother. We strike soon." MacKentick replied calmly, "We need only await the arrival of the final shipment before we begin the offensive."

"We need only wait until the Araluens rally their forces," McIntosh grumbled, "We should strike _now_ , whilst they are still unprepared. We wait and our men freeze their fingers off, our men grow hungry and weary, our men grow restless, eager for blood. The time for waiting is past- yet you seem to trust these delusions of sorcery spoken in your ear by a snake more than the cold steel of a strong blade."

"Delusions? I daresay that the gods would not be pleased to hear you denounce their power." A third voice interjected; a tone of bemused dry humor echoing in the silence.

The Scotti warriors turned as a man seemed to materialize from the darkness, a robe as equally vibrant as the night swirling around his frail frame. A cowl was pulled up over his head, shadows only revealing his jawline, which was wrinkled with age. A blue clasp, adorned with an azure gemstone gleamed in the low light.

"So you've returned." MacKentick smiled grimly.

"Indeed, I have, General," The man bowed, placing a corrugated fist over his right breast, "I bring news from the south."

"Ah, so the scouts-"

"The scouts are dead, General." The man interrupted, "Killed at the barge crossing."

McIntosh frowned, "Killed by whom?"

"A ranger."

MacKentick swore vehemently, his brother scowling in agreement. The Scotti brothers held no love of the green clad bowmen. Much like the rest of their clans, they had had brethren who'd died at the hands of a ranger in the siege of Macindaw last winter. Aged lips snaked upwards at the warriors reaction, the robed man holding up a placating hand before continuing.

"One of my children is seeing to the upsetting development." He said, "The ranger will not be a problem."

"For your sake he'd better not be." McIntosh growled, narrowing his eyes at the shady figure. "You've promised us an easy victory, claiming to have harnessed the power of the gods and yet I see you do _nothing_ but tell us it is not yet time to strike."

The robed man continued smiling, " _Lieutenant_ McIntosh." He iterated, stressing the title, "The General has placed me and my children in charge of facilitating the specifics of Araluen's demise. You may hold the expertise in battle tactics, but I am the undeniable master of subterfuge." A nerve twitched in the warrior's temple as the man persisted, "This upcoming fight will need more my skill than your brute force."

"You-!" McIntosh's hand grasped the worn hilt of the broad axe at his side. Before the weapon could be drawn, another hand intervened. McIntosh scowled at the General.

"Be at peace, my brother, do not stoop to the level of the fallen. And you-" MacKentick turned to the robed elder, "Do not degrade the intelligence of my Lieutenant. We have yet to see a proper demonstration of your self proclaimed power, aside from petty parlor tricks and gimmicks."

The wrinkled lips turned downwards.

A figure slipped from the shadows, moving to stand behind the robed man. The newcomer was similarly dressed, if not substantially younger than the elder. The clean shaven arrival leaned in and whispered something to the man.

The wrinkles lips smiled once again. "Thank you, my child." The robed man said to his younger counterpart. With a short bow the newcomer left, vanishing into the folds of the night.

"General, _Lieutenant_ , you are correct. Perhaps a demonstration of my power is long overdue. Shall I indulge you?"

"Not just us," McIntosh answered, narrowing his eyes, "But the entire clan. Prove to them your power, if you have any at all. If they are not impressed we shall see to it that your neck be freed of the burden that is your head."

"A trial by fire then?" The elder laughed, rubbing his throat with an aged hand. "So be it. Call the clans!"

It was one of the few marvels of an operation this monumental; how short a time it took for the clansmen to gather at the raised podium. One second the area was bereft with open grassland, the next, those same plants were being trampled by hundreds of the kilted barbarians. Looking out among the masses, the robed man would be hard pressed to identify the warriors as individuals, let alone by name. Such was the nature of the Scotti clansmen. Each wore a variation of the MacKentick colors of black and blue, most commonly in cloth form. Some wore leather bracers or chestplates, studded with steel or embroidered with more clan symbols. Others wore nothing but the clan cloth, opting for the traditional shirtless showing of bulging muscle and thick sinew. It was a testament to the sheer willpower of the clan that they need no thick buffer against the brutally cold climate.

The weapons they carried were also varied, yet still somehow indistinct, each chosen of the clan's preference. Battleaxes, mace and chains, broadswords the length of a man's body, spiked clubs as thick as a mainmast. Even the clansman's facial hair was undefined, ragged, unkempt, and barbarish- for lack of a better description.

In the eyes of the elder, they were beautiful.

"My fellow clansmen!" The robed man began, raising his hands skyward. "The gods have spoken to me! They have shown me a great victory this day, a day soon to come for all of Picta." The Scotti roared in agreement, "The gods are with us! They have given us the power to overcome incredible odds. I tell you this because I have seen their might, I tell you it is so because some among you doubt their all encompassing will. Look, and witness yourself the power of the gods!" With a flourish, the old man waved a hand toward the moored boats.

If the sun had emerged in the midst of the night, it would not shine as bright as the light that engulfed the docked ships. The clansmen cowed before the spectacle, shouting unintelligible words that could be construed as prayers or curses or both. The flare of illumination lasted for only a brief moment, the brilliant white quickly subsiding in favor of deep reds and oranges and yellows. A cacophony of hues that cackled into the evening air, rising above the treetops with glee.

"The boats…" MacKentick stood dumbfounded, mouth agape as he witnessed the pillars of wood- once sturdy and strong- slowly degrade as it was engulfed with flames. McIntosh was the first to recover, shouting at the men to attend to the fires. But no one made move to extinguish the destructive power that now burned their boats.

The robed man smiled, hand raised towards the crumbling mastheads, "This, _this_ is the power the gods have bestowed upon me to use for the sake of the MacKentick clan! The Godsfire! Enough to decimate the entire continent of Araluen! This is their message to you- do not falter! Do not hail to defeat- Conquer! Do not succumb to retreat- Press onwards! Victory is assured only to those who do not plan an escape route. So go now! Prep your blades! We move to take Macindaw by the week's end- We move for victory!"

The resulting roar of agreement drowned out the sounds of the bonfire.

As the men scattered to their respective tents, McIntosh stepped forwards, a hand gripping the hilt of his weapon. "You betray the clans by eradicating our only means of escape." He growled. The blade of his broadaxe was soon leveled at the robed man's throat, "You destroy our property and dare claim that you know our gods better than we? _You_ , who are not of Scotti blood?"

"What does blood matter amongst allies?"

"Insolent man! I shall rid us all of your tyranny and your venom tongue!" McIntosh drew back to strike. The robed man smiled. Before the axe could swing, MacKentick intervened once more, grasping his Lieutenant's shoulder.

"Do not deny me this time, brothe-" McIntosh's accusation died in his throat at the sight of the General's gaze. It took much to anger the man who led the MacKentick clan, but now the General's eyes flickered with the light of the Godsfire, a fire that burned as hot as the fury contorting his features.

When he spoke, his words were quiet, and calm, "What is your reasoning for burning the ships. Before you respond," MacKentick added, "know that if I find your reply unsatisfactory, I will not stop my Lieutenants blade."

The robed man nodded, "A fair ruling. My reason is quite simple." The frail elder paused, smiling at the barbarians, "It's amazing what can be accomplished when there are no other options but live… or die."

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **And now for the shoutouts:**_

 ** _A heartfelt thanks to everyone who favorited and followed the story! A2hring, Artoria Lyn, Explodinglolipops, .Song, Taz Taz, duckreb, saitema-sensei, and stormrunner74, thanks for sticking with the story through this much too long break._**

 ** _To Explodinglolipops, Taz Taz, saitema-sensei, and XXX-AJ-Writes-XXX, my chest swells with pride that you think this story is good enough to favorite! Even though I may have thanked some of you in previous chapters, allow me to do so once again._**

 ** _Finally, to T, I guess I wasn't 100 percent sure about that distinction. I thought maybe they were different people in the same country, but I never found anything that stated Picta was the world and the Scotti were it's people, so thank you for bringing that to my attention. I do appreciate you correcting that small continuity error. :)_**

 ** _As always I look forwards to your comments, reviews, constructive criticisms and more! They are always welcomed and eagerly awaited._**

 ** _That's all for today, I know the chapter was a bit shorter than normal but I wanted to get something out. Now that I'm home from training I'll have much more time to write so I'll be attempting to produce a chapter a week. :D See you in the next installment!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	13. Farewell to Friends

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **I'm late, I know- but hear me out, I... have no excuse. I was lazy. XP**_

 _ **So! As an apology, may I present a chapter that is twice as long as my formerly longest chapter ever.**_

 _ **I'll be out of town starting Wednesday, so this is partially my post for this week as well. I'm going up to Chicago to watch the play "Hamilton" with a friend- I'm SUPER excited. I'll be spending the weekend with my boyfriend who's in Navy Advanced training (I know, weak sauce- couldn't handle the epicness of my Army ;)**_

 _ **Anyhoo...**_

 _ **Lots going on in this one, so sit back relax- if you can ;)- and enjoy the next installment of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

"I'm sad to see you go."

Steven jumped in surprise, turning to face the Ranger who'd seemed to come out of nowhere. Damara's head whipped around, but her composure was much more controlled than the Ox driver's, a soft huff the only indication she'd been caught unawares. Gilan smiled inwardly at their reactions, glad to know his unseen movement skills had yet to diminish. "Are you sure you don't want to stay for a few nights?"

"I'm quite positive, Ranger." Steven confirmed, "Not that it's bad company or nothin', but I told the missus I'd be back as soon as circumstance allowed. She's a slavedriver, she is." He chortled good-humoredly.

Gilan nodded knowingly, "Strong women tend to be." He offered his hand, "I cannot thank you enough for your services, I'll send word to Baron Fergus- no doubt he'll have you duly rewarded. You as well." He added with a nod to Damara

"O-Oh, sure." The Ox driver stammered, accepting the handshake. A slight blush rose to his cheeks at the praise, it was a rare commodity to be acknowledged by a Ranger. Let alone _thanked_ by one.

Damara simply shrugged, neither acknowledging or dismissing his words. As Steven moved to finish tacking the oxen, Gilan shifted to stand besides the girl. "If I may ask, who taught you to fight?"

"... A friend." Damara answered after a pause, not sure where the ranger was going with his line of questioning.

Gilan nodded, "Well your friend must be quite skilled." _Enough to train in foreign types of swordplay_ , the ranger completed the thought silently. Having been instructed by one of the finest swordmasters in Araluen, Gilan appreciated the value of knowing various fighting styles. His father, Battlemaster David, was also aware that knowledge of a technique could also provide the opportunity to learn to counter it.

Damara's teacher- whomever he was- certainly taught the girl some unique moves. Her blades were of foreign make as well, Gilan had never come across a pair of daggers like hers. The only thing that came close were the two blades worn around his waist, the standard ranger issue throwing, and Saxe knife that could be used in conjunction. If he could find a way to contact Damara's teacher, Gilan was sure Battlemaster David would be open to the idea of being taught by the man.

The ranger shook his head, placing the idea on the back burner- he could track down Damara and her mentor once this issue with the Scotti was resolved and he was back in Caraway. At present, there was one last thing he had to do.

"I must apologize to you."

"What? Why?" The words had left her mouth before Damara had a chance to close it.

"Because I misjudged you," Gilan explained honestly, "Back at the crossing, I'd thought that- well, someone of your stature, would be more hindrance than help. You proved me wrong." the ranger finished simply, "And for that I am sorry."

The girl wasn't sure how to respond to that so she opted for silence.

Steven returned from the front of the cart, looking around to confirm that all the preparation were complete. "Well we'd best be setting out, then." He declared, "Got a full two day's ride to Headsbridge."

"Fair travels, Steven."

"And safe faith to you, Ranger."

" _HOLD IT!_ " Both men turned at the shout, seeing none other than Brom staggering across the snow to reach them. Upon arriving in their proximity, he proceeded to bend at the waist, propping hands on kneecaps as he regained his breath through exaggerated gasps of air. In his right hand he grasped a paper-wrapped, suspiciously bottle-shaped item.

Damara sighed at the theatrics, moving to the front of the cart as if the minstrels' absurdity was somehow contagious.

After a moment he straightened and glared at the two men, "You Rangers and Ox drivers; I will never understand what possesses you to wake up before the sun." Brom declared, motioning to the morning light that was just now peeking over the distant landscape.

The two in question exchanged a look.

Gilan shrugged, "Why? Is something the matter?"

"Well of _course_ something's the matter." Brom huffed, crossing his arms as best he could with the package, "How can I attend this farewell send off if I'm still asleep in my bedchamber? It was a disastrous dilemma of the most wretched intent. There was only one way I could think of to solve it..."

" And that would be?" Steven prompted.

"Why, by waking up, of course!" Brom let loose the smile he'd been hiding, holding out his left hand to the Ox driver. "It was a pleasure travelling with you and your Pot and Pan. And of course the lovely maiden Damara. I wish you all the best on your journey home."

At the mention of their names, the two musk oxen snorted, their breath steaming in the frigid air. Damara rolled her eyes while Steven grasped the minstrel's hand, "The pleasure was mine, sir." It was an odd sensation; being thanked by an ordinary man after having just been praised by a Ranger, and not being able to discern a difference between the sincerity of each.

"Oh, right!" Brom's eyes widened as he appeared to remember the package in his grasp, "A parting gift." He explained, placing it in the Ox drivers hand, "Do _try_ not to drink it all in one sitting."

"What is it?" The question was simply habit for the Ox driver, who wasn't prone to opening goods unless necessary. To the minstrel, however, it was an opportunity to spout more comedic nonsense.

"A severed, shrunken head of a goblin suspended in the transparent sap of the Sawan tree." Brom sighed as the joke went unnoticed, Steven now regarding the bottle with terror. Some people just had no grasp of sarcasm, "It's mead." He explained, "I received it about two months ago from a merchant in Seacliff. It's a famous Skandian brew- I believe they call it 'Grog'."

Damara's eyebrows rose.

"Skandian!" Steven exclaimed with amazement. The only things those barbarians cherished more than fighting and plundering and sailing was good, strong ale. Even a mug full of their imported brews could cost an arm and a leg and then some. But yet here Brom was with an entire bottle of the stuff- giving it away as a gift, no less!

The Ox driver made to give it back, "I couldn't possibly-"

"Drink it all in one sitting? Precisely as I said." Brom interrupted, crossing his arms in a refusal of Stevens attempt. "Now you'd best be going before the sun shows itself."

Gilan and Brom waved from the drawbridge as Steven and his oxen-pulled cart slowly meandered east, making for Marshwood Fief. "Skandians don't usually trade their ale to just anyone." Gilan mentioned casually as they stood there; recalling their almost possessive protection of the drink when at sea.

"I'm a well-travelled man." Brom replied vaguely, smiling to himself, "Come to think of it, I don't even drink."

"You don't drink?"

"Good heavens no!" Brom chortled, "I've got no tolerance for the stuff, and have you ever heard of a _bard_ getting drunk? Usually we leave that to the other patrons."

It was a moment before the ranger responded, "So… you don't drink… and yet you carried Scandian alcohol? There's got to be a story behind that."

Brom nodded, "A fascinating tale if I do say so myself, involving some playing cards, a pair of loaded dice, a bar stool, and a goat."

"A goat?"

"A goat." The minstrel confirmed with a solemn nod.

It was a few minutes before they headed inside, both men remaining out in the cold to see off the man and girl who'd they'd come to view as friends and worthy companions.

"Guess I'm next." Brom said regretfully as the drawbridge clambered shut behind them.

Gilan frowned at the implication, "Come again?"

The minstrel smiled, spreading his hands"Steven beat me to it, but I'll be taking my leave shortly. Just need to finish packing up a few things and then I'm off. Mind you, unlike our oxen friend, I'll be eating breakfast _before_ I leave."

"Strange." Gilan mused.

"What, breakfast? It's not all that confusing." Brom joked, "Usually people eat it after they wake up and before they start doing any form of work."

"Not that," Gilan smiled, "If memory serves, you once told me that witnessing a battle first hand made the ballads and legends all the easier to tell." He explained, "So I find it strange that you would depart, knowing such an epic is sure to unfold here."

"Yes," Brom smiled sadly, "It goes against my nature, however, there's a pressing matter I must take care of in Norgate- who knows? Perhaps once it's resolved I will return, and you can regale me with stories of your heroicness."

Although he said the words with conviction, Gilan got the distinct impression that the minstrel's task would not be completed so easily. "Are you sure you don't want to stay and rest for one more night?" Gilan said, knowing the answer as he asked.

"I'm afraid not," Brom instinctively fiddled with the silver band on his left index finger, "The sooner I can reach Norgate, the better."

"Ranger Gilan, sir! Ranger Gilan!" The two looked over to see a young soldier jogging towards them, he stopped a few feet short of the men giving a brief salute, "Sir, Lord Orman requests to speak with you. The matter is of the utmost urgency."

Gilan nodded, "Inform Lord Orman I shall be there momentarily."

"Yes'sir." The soldier saluted again before hurrying off.

"Does _anyone_ around here know what beauty sleep is?" Brom sighed, taking a moment to make an obvious once-over of the Ranger. "On second thought, forget I asked."

"Duty calls," Gilan shrugged, "In case you leave before this meeting resolves, I wish you the best. I hope we can meet again in the future." The two men clasped arms, Brom providing two manly claps on the Ranger'shoulder.

"Oh I'll be around. Try not to get yourself killed while I'm gone, though." He said, alluding to their previous encounter with the Scotti.

The young ranger normally didn't need anyone else to save his life. He was pretty skilled at doing it for himself. But Gilan had to admit that having someone like Brom to watch his back was reassuring, the man was good company, reminding Gilan of the time's he'd spent in his apprenticeship and thereafter with a certain pair of fellow rangers.

"I'll do my best." He assured.

* * *

The cart trudged through the snow, leaving two rivets in it's wake. After they'd left, the sight of the imposing garrison walls had shrunken steadily until they were no longer visible, disappearing over the various hills and valleys that divided the two fiefdoms. In the distance, the mountains slowly receded, indicative of the edge of Marshwood Bay. According to Papi, there was a coastal pass that ran through the mountains called The Strand, a secret route that the Scotti had abandoned after a harsh winter trapped a clan in the rocky enclosure.

Hopefully the snow would have melted by now.

Damara would hop off at Headsbridge and follow the coastline, then it was a short crossing at The Strand and she was home free.

"Can you believe it?" Steven said, talking mostly to himself since Damara never responded. "Thanked by a ranger. A _Ranger_!"

It was the third time he'd said it.

"What's so special about it?" She asked, not seeing the need for such veneration.

Steven blinked, looking over at her as if she had grown a second head. "What's so- He was a _Ranger_. It's not everyday you get thanked by an associate of the King."

"They work with the King?" Damara's attention was ensnared by the realization. "I thought they were just glorified knights?"

Steven laughed, "No more a knight than you or I. They're the shadows of Araluen, the eyes and ears of the kingdom. They can shoot the stem off of an apple two hundred meters away and vanish into the landscape as if they were never there to begin with. I got a letter from me cousin down in Seacliff a month ago- he said that the ranger assigned there had stopped an entire boatload of Skandians from pillaging the village."

" _One_ ranger?"

"One ranger." Steven confirmed with a nod.

Damara frowned, far fetched as it sounded, Steven's description of them was no less amazing. If one man could stop a small armada, then the two back at Macindaw… the girl contemplated their combined effect upon the upcoming battle. As the cart meandered onwards, Damara decided that the information was worth reporting back to Papi.

* * *

"About time you showed up." Meralon quipped as the door to the study closed behind Gilan.

The small room had been cleared to allow more standing room, but was no less crowded. Along with the older Ranger, the garrison commander, Lord Orman and Xander- his steward, were positioned around the desk, while a young knight laden in armor sat in the far corner of the room on a straight backed chair. On the mahogany table, a map of the region was unfurled; marks had been made on the page and chess pieces had been placed in strategic locations.

"We waited for you." Lord Orman elaborated, his words much more tactful than Gilan's peer.

Gilan moved to stand besides the table, "My apologies for keeping you waiting."

Lord Orman waved aside the statement, "No matter. I've called you here because of a startling report we received late last evening. Apparently, the mountains to the northeast of Macindaw were illuminated approximately five hours before daybreak."

Gilan frowned, not completely understanding.

"I don't follow, what do you mean 'illuminated'?" Meralon's eyebrows drew together in confusion, "As in a bonfire?"

The garrison commander gestured to the young knight, "Please describe what you witnessed, Tristain."

The knight nodded, rising to his feet. His hair had been cropped, like all other guardsmen, and his eyes were laden with exhaustion. No doubt he'd been forced to remain awake since the end of his shift to explain and re-explain the event he'd seen, Gilan realized. The man looked completely worn out, but he managed to walk over to the map, pointing to a location in the Bearback mountains.

"It was around here." Tristain said, "I was patrolling along the eastern parapet when I saw it, it was…" He paused, searching for the words, "It was like the sun had emerged from inside the mountain. A shockingly bright white that just… appeared. And just as quickly it was gone, replaced by a dark umber glow that slowly dimmed over the following half-hour."

"Thank you, Tristain." The knight nodded and returned to the chair, sinking down with a soft groan as he rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to keep them open.

Gilan noted the black king chess piece placed in the spot pointed out, "You believe this is where the Scotti's main force is?"

"It's as good an assumption as any," Lord Orman shrugged. "We know thanks to Ranger Meralon's scouting mission that they were carrying some sort of cargo east, parallel to the Brushwood pass. It's quite possible that their main attacking force is where the light came from."

"If there _was_ even a light." The garrison commander frowned as Meralon continued, "What could possibly produce such an experience? Are we sure the guardsman didn't just fall asleep on his rounds, fabricating this fascinating story in his dreams?"

The commander stepped up, addressing the older ranger, "My men are professionals, sir. _They_ do not cut corners in their tasks, and I do not appreciate _you_ accusing them otherwise."

Meralon's brows furrowed further, displaying his displeasure of the implications of the commander's words. He opened his mouth to retort but Gilan intervened, "Regardless, now that we have this information, reliable or not, we must decide on what to do with it."

Lord Orman nodded in agreement, "I, for one, trust the report. As such, I believe it would be best to send another scouting party to investigate."

"M'Lord," The commander said, "If we believe this is the location of their main force, then may I suggest sending more than a reconnaissance team. We've more than enough men to eradicate any remaining raiders."

"Small bands of plunderers and raiders, perhaps," Gilan mused, "But would we have enough to bring down an army?"

Meralon cocked his head to the side, "An army? I hardly think those barbarians could form an organized force."

Gilan would've stroked his majestic beard if he'd had one, "I think this is more than a set of simple raids on our border."

"What brings you to this conclusion?" Lord Orman inquired.

"Look here," The young ranger pointed to a set of marks on the map, "These indicate places where your patrols have met with small groups of Scotti, yes?" Orman confirmed the question with a nod, "The caravan I travelled here with ran into a small group here, at the Comhla crossing." Gilan trailed his finger along the woodline just west of the final mark, "I believe they were getting a feel for your patrol area. Seeing how far out they encountered garrison soldiers so they would know where to send troops for a flank."

The commander surveyed the map, commenting,"The encounters we've had have been brief ones, the Scotti mostly flee rather than engage in a melee."

"That further proves my point," Gilan nodded, "These are Scotti- experts at close quarters fighting. They live and breath it. Why retreat, then, from a small force of knights? Because they had no intention of fighting, they were doing their own reconnaissance." He noted the Comhla crossing again, "And once they found an opening, they attempted to establish a base for their flanking force."

"Still, an _army_?" Meralon scoffed, "Even a whole clan of those Barbarians couldn't go up against the numbers we've amassed here. I agree with the commander, we should bring the fight to them. Drive them away from the border once and for all."

"One clan, perhaps, but there have been instances of the Scotti clans uniting against a common enemy." Gilan countered.

Lord Orman was silent, observing the map with a keen gaze.

"That's only ever happened once," Meralon said, rolling his eyes, "And that was back when there were only the two main clans. Unlike today where there are now a good dozen or so. Even with two of them united, we have more than enough manpower-"

"This isn't about the size of the opposing forces," Gilan interrupted, annoyed that his fellow ranger was disregarding the potential impact of such a threat, "It's being smart about _where_ we choose to engage them. Bringing the fight to them only gives the Scotti the advantage, whereas if we position ourselves defensively we have a much better chance of success."

Meralon tsked, "You really _were_ Halt's apprentice, weren't you. He always ignored the advice of those above him. Did he not teach you to respect authority?" The older ranger held himself with an air about him as if he was due some of that respect, when in fact, he held no position over his younger peer.

Gilan's eyes narrowed at the insult to his mentor, a warning glint in their aegean depths "Oh, he teaches us to respect authority," The younger ranger . "He just teaches us to ignore it when necessary."

Lord Orman cleared his throat, both of the rangers halting in their exchange, "Now, if you two would kindly cease arguing, we'll get back to the relatively simple business of planning a war."

* * *

Brom had never seen so much snow in his life. It covered the mountains to his right, coated the canopy of trees on his left, and blanketed the path before him that he were supposedly following. Although, in truth, Brom couldn't tell if they were even on a road at all. The white stuff was everywhere, including in his equipment- although, to be fair, _that_ snow had long since melted, leaving darkened stains in the bottom of his bags. The midday sun had melted patches of the fine powder into a slush that would refreeze overnight as temperatures dropped below freezing, creating patches of ice that were strewn randomly around the area. The minstrel drew his cloak in tighter, shivering in the cold.

"Are we there yet?" He asked.

Bartholemule snorted, continuing his steady canter.

"You're right, you're right, we've only been travelling for a few hours so of course we're not there yet."

Another snort.

"Well naturally," Brom replied, "We should be able to see Castle Norgate a long ways off thanks to the terrain. With land this flat, we'll know we've gone the wrong way if we _don't_ see it come tomorrow."

The mule looked back at it's talkative rider, a brown eye rolling back to stare at the minstrel.

"Don't look at me like that." Brom admonished, sounding offended, "You have no right to doubt my sense of direction, I've only gotten us lost once. Or was it twice…" He then laughed, "But in actuality I have no idea what you're saying since I don't speak mule."

Bartholemule bleated, facing forwards again.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't imagine you say that." Brom decided, nodding curtly to himself. With a sigh he pulled out his journal, rifling through the pages as the day wore on. He was used to travelling by himself; him and Bartholemule, alone together. Bards were known as wanderers, braving the trek to various locations all on their lonesome, save a trusty mount if they could afford it. The experience made arriving in a new town all the easier to acquiesce: warming up to a tavern crowd was so much simpler when one had been deprived of communication for days, or weeks on end.

 _Well, communication with other bipedal organisms, that is_ _,_ Brom mused, patting Bartholemule fondly on the neck.

Time wore on and the sun sank lower into the sky, casting its glow across the snowscape. Brom scribbled in his notebook, jotting down the sight of oranges and pinks and reds that were reflected onto the white canvas that was his current world. The few clouds on the horizon were stretched thin, scattering a few of the rays across the heavens. Small patches of shadow emerged where dips and folds in the ground had been overlain with the alabaster powder. The iced-over fronds on the trees gleamed like stars as light reflected off their crystalline structure.

"Beautiful." Brom whispered to the open air. Shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand, he saw that the path ahead wove between the two sides of the forest; the side from his left, and the small greenery that connected to the mountains on his right. He approached the bottleneck slowly, stowing the journal in favor of his handheld crossbow. It always paid to be cautious of a narrow area with only one apparent crossing.

His fears were abated once they'd passed the treeline uneventfully. Bartholemule padding studiously onwards, unaware of the baited tension his rider had undergone. Brom replaced the weapon at his side, chuckling a bit as he wondered when he'd become so untrusting and suspicious of the world.

The minstrel didn't need to wonder much, that day- was it really only seven years ago?- was still vividly imprinted in his mind. Brom absentmindedly massaged the back of his neck before adjusting the collar of his shirt with a shake of his head.

It didn't matter. The past was the past, nothing he could do about it. The future, however, was unwritten. He pulled out a smaller journal, opening it to a creased page and unfolding the paper that had been carefully stored at the page. His eyes skimmed over the familiar words, words he knew by heart, and sentences he would remember for the rest of his life. His gaze lingered on the last line of text:

 _. . . and are hereby banished from the lands of Celtica indefinitely._

Brom folded the letter and placed it back in it's position before checking the back of the notebook where a crisp, slightly yellowed envelope was tucked away safely. Nodding to himself he slipped the smaller journal into his coat pocket, prodding Bartholemule to trot a bit faster.

The sooner they got to Norgate, the better.

* * *

As the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, Damara finished her inspection of the stolen item. She'd been tinkering with it for the past few hours of their journey, ensuring that each detail was perfect before finally replacing it in her satchel.

Damara had lain back observing the sky as familiar stars began to wink into existence. She mentally defined each constellation as they appeared, recalling the bedtime stories Papi would tell her and the other acolytes. Her favorite had been the one about the hunter, and how he'd killed all manner of beasts with a single blow. The hunter had bragged and boasted about being the most skilled warrior in all the lands, daring any creature to challenge his prowess.

A small scorpion had stepped forwards, the mighty hunter laughing that such a small, insignificant bug could never best him, a warrior. Mockingly, the hunter had offered the scorpion a free strike, saying that his foot would trample it as soon as the first blow was finished.

Accepting the offer, the scorpion stung him.

In the next moment, the hunter's foot squashed the arachnid.

The hunter laughed and jeered, until the next day when he fell ill. Before the sun reached the midway point in the sky, the hunter lie dead. And now, the hunter forever chases the scorpion through the celestial heavens, never able to reach the small being that took down the mighty warrior.

Damara thought of herself as the scorpion; small, unsuspecting, and deadly.

She'd be the best acolyte in Papi's inner circle. The most cunning, the most efficient, the most intuitive and knowledgeable. While the other students stood in the spotlight, demanding praise from their mentor, she would hide in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to prove her worth.

The cart bumped over a snow drift, Damara's thoughts shifting as Steven reigned in the oxen, bringing the wagon to a halt. She frowned, "Why're we stopping? We can keep going for a few more hours."

The ox driver didn't respond.

"Did you hear me? I said-" Damara stopped, mid sentence. Steven was gaping at something in the distance, and when the girl followed his gaze she too, watched openmouthed.

Stretched before them was the valley Marshwood Fief occupied. Still a good day's ride out from the closest town, the hill the cart was on gave them a fair vantage over the area. They could see the castle walls of Stoneheath and the squat buildings of Muttonton in the distance.

And the reason they could see it in the dark of night, was because it was burning.

* * *

 _ **Fin. Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Shoutout to maddelyn234 and Forgiven4Life: thanks for following and favoriting (respectively)!**_

 _ **Final things,**_

 _ **ToForgiven4Life: I'm so glad you like it, always encouraging to have a new reader read this story! :D Words cannot describe how happy your review made me, I hope I continue to live up to your expectations :)**_

 _ **To ByTheOldOak: You and I both can't wait for more ;) sorry to say that the anticipation has only been built further with this installment. Can't wait to get back in the groove of writing again! Thanks for the review!**_

 _ **To Guest (~JAS): Hi and welcome! I know you reviewed for chapter one, so by the time you read this I anticipate many more reviews ;) You seem like one of those readers who reviews frequently and I am SO ecstatic that you decided to read my fanfiction. So good to know I captured the pace and feel of the original books in chapter one- keep me honest ;) and keep the critiques and reviews coming. I look forwards to each and every one.**_

 _ **Lastly, big thanks to Ensis96 for helping me iron out a few kinks in the chapter- you rock!**_

 _ **That's all for today, as always I look eagerly forwards to reviews, critiques, criticisms, and anything else you share with me :) Have a great spring break (for those of you lucky enough to not yet be adulting)!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	14. Two Bards Walk Into A Bar

_**Hello Readers!**_

 _ **Not much to say today, I'm posting early because I will be up at a college orientation Friday and Saturday.**_

 _ **Quick shoutout to all of the international viewers. I know I'm from the USA so here's to all those who might need to click the translate button to read this story- y'all are the best!**_

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 _ **THANK YOU ALL! For supporting this story!**_

 _ **Without stalling any further, here is Chapter 14 of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger!**_

 _ **Enjoy! :D**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

Berrigan was making a _killing_ tonight; and word around the tavern had it that the flow of coins wouldn't be ceasing soon. The locals whispered about a group heading up from Castle Araluen, although who they were or what their goal was, remained but a rumor. Either way, more people meant more beer flowing, and that always led to a heavier purse for the entertainers. So long as the entertainment was good, at least; and Berrigan was _good_ \- when he was playing, that is, which at the moment, he was not. A dilemma that was easily remedied by the man chugging down the last of his coffee before picking up his guitarra: a six stringed instrument originating from the eastern country of Gallica.

Berrigan cleared his throat and provided a test strum, ensuring that the tavern heat hadn't stretched any of the strings. The chord was in tune, and now the bar patrons had quieted a bit from their normal chatter to hear another song by the bard. They'd been pleasantly surprised by the man who had arrived a few nights ago, wearing the haphazard patterns of bright greens and grays and blacks that signified him as a jongleur. Typically, most of the more professional entertainers could attain the more costly, yet vibrant fabrics. However, Berrigan seemed to just prefer the color scheme, as opposed to not being able to afford the purples and yellows of his peers.

He had a lean face, with high cheekbones and a large, hawk-like nose. But the outstanding features were the bright blue eyes and the wide, friendly smile. Berrigan wore his hair long, as befitted his calling, and had the distinct feature of a wooden peg leg in place of where his left knee should've been. According to the older bard, he'd lost his leg in a pitched battle with raiding Skandians, while defending a helpless farmer from three of the fierce warriors.

It was a good story, although the more experienced drinkers knew that bards tended to stretch the truth. Either way, good music was good music, and the patrons looked forwards to more of it.

"This song is called the 'Seven Drunken Nights'," Berrigan announced, adding with a smile, "But I can only seem to recall five of 'em." As good humored chortles rippled around the room, the minstrel began, thumping his wooden peg leg on the wooden floorboards as an accompaniment to the song:

 _As I went home late that first night, as drunk as drunk could be,_

 _I saw a horse outside the door, where my own horse should be,_

 _Well I called me wife and I says to her, would you kindly tell to me,_

 _Who owns that horse outside the door, where my own horse should be?_

Berrigan had a strong voice, carefully crafted from more than a decade of training and performing at local bars, festivals, and at the behest of lords and ladies throughout the kingdom of Araluen.

 _Aye, you're drunk, you're drunk you silly old fool, still you cannot see?_

 _That's a love-li goat that me mother sent to me._

 _Well it's many a days I've travelled, a hundred miles or more!_

 _But a saddle on a goat, I done never saw before._

 _._

 _As I went home the second night, as drunk as drunk could be,_

 _I saw a coat behind the door, where my own coat should be,_

 _Well I called me wife and I says to her, will you kindly tell to me,_

 _Who owns that coat behind the door, where my own coat should be?_

 _._

 _Aye, you're drunk, you're drunk, you silly old fool, still you cannot see?_

 _That's a woolen blanket that me mother sent to me._

 _Well it's many a days I've travelled, a hundred miles or more!_

 _But buttons on a blanket, sure I've never saw before._

 _._

 _As I went home on that fourth night-_

The patrons laughed, calling out various cries of "You forgot three!" or "You skipped a number there, friend!" as the door to the tavern opened and closed as people came and went.

Berrigan paused, frowning for a moment as if he was confused, "Yeh mean four doesn't come after two? Best be sure to let the scholars know of this new discovery!" With a strum he continued:

 _As I went home late that third night, as drunk as drunk could be,_

 _I saw a pipe upon the chair, where my own pipe should be,_

 _Well I called me wife and I says to her, would you kindly tell to me,_

 _Who owns that pipe upon the chair, where my own pipe should be?_

 _._

 _Aye, you're drunk, you're drunk, you silly old fool, still you cannot see?_

 _That's a lovely tin whistle that me mother sent to me._

 _Well it's many a days I've travelled, a hundred miles or more!_

 _But tobacco in a tin whistle, I did never saw before._

 _._

 _As I went home on that fourth night, as drunk as drunk could be,_

 _I saw two boots beneath the bed, where my own boots should be,_

 _Well I called me wife and I says to her, would you kindly tell to me,_

 _Who owns them boots beneath the bed, where my own boots should be?_

 _._

 _Aye, you're drunk, you're drunk you silly old fool, still you cannot see?_

 _That's a pair of Geranium pots me mother sent to me._

 _Well it's many a days I've travelled, a hundred miles or more,_

 _But laces in Geranium pots, I'd never saw before._

 _._

 _As I went home late that fifth night, as drunk as drunk could be,_

 _I saw a head upon the bed, where my own head should be,_

 _Well I called me wife and I says to her, would you kindly tell to me,_

 _Who owns that head upon the bed, where my own head should be?_

 _._

 _Aye, you're drunk, you're drunk you silly old fool, still you cannot see?_

 _That's a baby boy that me mother sent to me._

 _Well it's many a days I've travelled, a hundred miles or more,_

 _But a baby playing with his whiskers, I'd done never saw before._

And with the final lich playfully strummed, the taproom erupted into laughter and applause. With calls for an encore as some of the more generous residents dropped a few more coins into the minstrel's instrument case.

"Well I, for one, would rather not hear the sound of nails on a chalkboard grating in my eardrums- that sound you so coyly call 'singing'." One loud voice proclaimed.

The entire taproom seemed to go quiet instantaneously as the man who'd spoken stepped forwards, arms folded across his homely jerkin. The newcomer's beard and hair were as unkempt as his clothes, and his green eyes were narrowed as if to dare anyone challenge his statement. Berrigan and the man elapsed into a tense staring contest.

Now the bartender had seen situations like this one arise more than he would like to admit, and was already factoring out the cost it would require to repair some of the floorboards and replace some of the stools. He had a backup set of drinking glasses down in the basement that he was running short on, and chances were he'd need to restock it after tonight. He'd get chastised by his wife again for not diffusing the situation, but the bartender was something of a realist- in that, he really didn't want to get his face bashed in by the two men who seemed entirely fixated on each other.

The bartender was just deciding on how much compensation to pay the staff- even though they sometimes _joined_ in the fray of flying fists- when the bard sniggered. It turned into a bellowing laugh followed quickly by another's chortles, the second voice belonging to the man who'd issued the insult.

"Your inferiority complex is fully justified, my friend." The bard retorted, a smile in in words.

The newcomer made a face and placed a hand on his heart, "Ooh- that's a low blow, Berrigan. Low indeed."

"You weren't exactly taking the high ground yourself, Ebrommius." Seeing as how the newcomer hadn't stated his name, some of the more sober patrons came to the realization that the two had been acquainted prior to this encounter. "Bartender!"

The bartender jumped at being called out by the bard, "Y-Yes?"

Berrigan nodded, sweeping his hand around the room, "Drinks on me," he proclaimed; the three words that could instantly dissipate any malintent in a taproom. "And, knowing my friend, he'll say he'd take a spot of tea instead." He added, winking at the newcomer as the man made to sit next to the bard.

The man named Ebrommius closed his mouth, having been about to say those exact words. As the room returned to it's normal chatter and fresh rounds of foaming mugs were distributed, Brom turned to his former teacher.

"I haven't heard 'The Seven Drunken Nights' in quite some time, your skills can only improve, it would seem."

"First insults, and now compliments?" Berrigan mused aloud, "What is it you want, Brom?"

The younger minstrel laughed, "Would you believe me if I said I had no idea you were here in Norgate?"

"No."

"Then I won't say it." Brom smiled, spreading his hands wide. "Although I see you still dress like a fool."

"And whatever kind of look you were going for, you missed." Berrigan shot back, used to the good-humored banter that preceded any serious talk with his friend. "So then, what brings you this far north?"

"Nah-ah-ah." Brom held up a finger. "That is _my_ question to you."

Berrigan rolled his eyes and relented, "No grand reason, really. The northern Fiefs are typically devoid of good entertainment during the winter, so logically, if a skilled bard should arrive the profits would be… insurmountable."

"If they wanted a decent minstrel I have no idea why they'd call you here."

Berrigan sighed, massaging his temple, "A sharp tongue is no indication of a keen mind, Brom."

"Ooh, that's a good one," the younger man whipped out his notebook, making a quick jot on one of the pages, "That's very good, mind if I use it?"

"Go ahead," The older bard waved his hand, "You use all of my tricks anyway."

"Skills," Brom corrected, closing the book with a snap, "When they are taught by a mentor, it's called skills. And those are meant to be mimicked."

"Fair enough, now you answer me. What brings you to Norgate?"

Brom rubbed his scruffy beard, "It's a long story."

"Good thing we have plenty of time." Berrigan replied, settling down in his chair as Brom began spinning the tale of the heroic venture to Castle Macindaw. Berrigan was a good audience, interrupting only when a question arose as to clarify confusion. As Brom recounted the story of the riverside skirmish, Berrigan found himself smiling as his prior student spoke about the way that the Ranger had acted without hesitation.

"I see Gilan's as lively as ever." Berrigan commented with a grin, recalling the young man who'd apprenticed under Halt. "Keeping his sword skills sharp, as usual."

At the interjection, Brom raised an eyebrow, "I wasn't aware you'd been acquainted."

Berrigan shrugged, "I told you once, remember? That I used to work for the Ranger Corps before I became a crippled old jongleur."

"Oh- so you were telling the truth, then?"

"What are you insinuating?" Berrigan huffed, sounding hurt, "I never exaggerate a tale, unlike others in our profession."

"Mm-hmm." Brom was unimpressed, stopping a nearby waitress to ask her a question, "I'm curious, ma'am, how did this man say he'd lost his leg?"

"Why, he said he fought off three Skandians who were after a poor farmer, 'e did." The waitress gushed, eyes wide with awe, "Amazing, I tell you."

Brom looked over at his mentor as the girl hurried on her way, "Three?"

Berrigan scratched the back of his neck, "Ah… did I say that? I'm not terribly sure, you see, there was a lot going on at once that day. Hard to keep track of it all, you know?"

"Mmm." Brom nodded slowly, "I'm sure. Well, since you seem to be a few eggs short of a dozen, allow me to remind you what you told me."

"Nah, that's not necessary-"

" _You_ said, if I can recall- and my memory's no better than your own, I'm sure. _You_ said, that you lost your leg after engaging in a close quarters melee since you'd run out of arrows. And that, in said fight, the Skandian tripped you before lobbing off your leg just below the kneecap. If I'm remembering your words, by the time you came to- after passing out from bloodloss- you had a wooden board for a leg." Brom glanced at Berrigan, "Or is that wrong?"

At the older musician's uncomfortable silence Brom snorted, "Never exaggerate my foot, you do it just the same as the rest of us."

"Bah- the original tale's not as heroic." Berrigan waved aside the accusation, "Regardless, you've yet to answer my question, stop dodging it by bandying words."

The steady smile Brom had been displaying wavered slightly, "Ah, yes, well," he cleared his throat, subconsciously fiddling with the ring on his index finger, "Let's just say… family matters. Ah, thanks lad."

Berrigan watched his former pupil take a long swig of the delivered tea. Brom had studied under him for two years, before leaving to take care of a 'family matter'. After his leave there had been concerning rumors of a braggadocious man named Ebrommius picking fights with the local strongarm of every town he visited. There were tales of him travelling to foreign lands and committing heinous crimes before returning to Araluen to claim sanctuary.

Then, one evening, in Cordom Feif, Berrigan ran into the lad, merrily performing in a small taproom. The older mentor had dragged the young man out back, demanding to know what kind of games he'd been playing. It was the only instance Berrigan could remember losing his composure in front of his former student. Whether is was the formidable anger exuded by his teacher, or the disappointment and shame he sensed in his mentor, Brom had explained his 'family matter' to the older minstrel.

That exchange had been three years ago.

Berrigan sighed, "If you haven't found him by now, you won't find him anytime soon."

"I'll find him." Was Brom's instant response.

"You won't."

"I will."

"I doubt it."

"I don't." The younger man replied- again- without hesitation. "And I'm not giving up."

"How long have you been searching with no results?" Berrigan pressed.

"Too long." Brom said quietly, his smile gone, "But I'm getting close."

"And how do you know-"

"Because I saw him!" Brom set his cup down heavily, looking up at his old mentor. His shamrock gaze was glossy, "I saw him, Berrigan, a month and a half ago, waving coyly from the bow of a Skandian ship at is set out to sea. He was _right there_." Brom pinched the bridge of his nose and took a calming breath. "I checked the ship logs, the one he had boarded was headed on a supply run to the northwest quadrant of Araluen and trading supplies to southern Picta before returning to the piers. I was on the next boat to Araluen that same day. I'm getting closer, I _know_ I am."

Silence stretched between them as Brom took another sip from his cup.

"Could he have gone back to Celtica?" Berrigan suggested, receiving a sharp shake of the head in return.

"No. He'd never go back there."

"Let's assume you do find him," Berrigan said, switching approaches. "What then? What would be your next course of action?"

"I-" Brom hesitated, "I'm not sure, exactly. I'll cross that bridge when I reach it."

Berrigan shook his head, "Just be sure there _is_ a bridge before attempting to. I swear, you're as stubborn as that old goat of yours!"

"Mule." Brom corrected, "Bartholemule's a mule."

"Bah- he only likes you because of the pun."

Brom laughed, "I suppose you're right. Now! Shall we serenade this motley lot with a duet? It's not everyday a famous minstrel comes to town, one who'd be happy to let an amatuer such as yourself accompany him."

"Bite your tongue, boy." Berrigan snorted, picking up his guitarra, "I swear, whoever told you to be yourself couldn't have given you worse advice."

"Haha!" Brom chortled, "Agreed- _you_ really couldn't have."

* * *

Malcolm was approaching the castle gate when the search group rode out. It had taken him longer than expected to prepare the large amount of poultice and medication that was now carefully stored in his bags. Finding the proper herbs during this time of year proved most difficult, and as such, most of the healers stores had been reduced to scraps.

As the search group drew up alongside the monk-like man, Malcolm could see the distinct barrel shape of the ranger's horse in the midst. Two ranger horses, to be precise. As the group drew level, Malcolm recognized Gilan as one of the riders and waved. The ranger dismounted and the two men clasped hands in greeting.

"Malcolm, glad you could make it."

"What else was there to do?" Malcolm replied with a shrug, "Besides, you Rangers always seem to make life interesting for me. What's all this, then?" He added, gesturing to the small force on horseback.

"Gathering information on the Scotti's whereabouts." Gilan replied, "Something strange happened the other night, I'm sure Lord Orman would be grateful for any helpful explanation you might be able to provide."

"I'm sure he would."

"Who is this man?" The two looked up as the second ranger horse reined in besides them. "Why did you disclose our mission to him, Gilan? Are you so stupid to trust even the simplest of commoners with secrets?"

Malcolm glanced at Gilan, "This putz wouldn't happen to be referring to me, would he?"

"Afraid so." The young man replied with a sigh, "Meralon. This is Malcolm, he's a healer and acquaintance of Lord Orman. He saved the Lord's life a while back during the first attempt to overtake Castle Macindaw."

"An event I doubt you can recall seeing as you weren't there." Malcolm added.

Meralon bristled at the insult, no doubt about to demand respect as a King's Ranger, however his rebuttal was interrupted by one of the guards calling out, "Sir, movement on the far ridge."

"What?" Gilan looked over and found the guard was correct, there were figures descending the snowy hill to the east.

"Ready weapons," Meralon commanded, "They could be a Scotti advance party."

"No. They're Araluens." Gilan said as he recognised a familiar cart-like shape among the mass of people. He believed his eyes, but the young ranger didn't have any idea why he was seeing what he saw.

Why had Steven and Damara returned?

* * *

 _ **Fin. Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Some final things...**_

 _ **First, to Ensis96: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked the insight to the characters, developing them so far has been really fun and I hope they continue to catch your intrigue. I liked the constellation story too- and who knows if it's foreshadowing something? BWAHAHAHAA...**_

 _ **Next, to ByTheOldOak: Yay! Another review! :D Things are indeed building, your guess is as good as mine as to where it'll head next. You have no idea how happy I was to hear someone say I'd written Meralon well :) I really only had like... what, four? Maybe five pages of dialogue from the books to go off of (the RA Wiki page isn't much more informative than the books so...) But *fistpump of joy* YAS! I love hearing that I was able to capture the essence of a character- made my day! And surprisingly, he's becoming one of my favorite characters to write, he's just so... so lovably close-minded about everything! Makes for interesting dialogue ;) Thanks again for the review!**_

 _ **Finally to Forgiven4Life: Glad you liked the chapter, It took a long time to polish it off before publishing- I'm very proud of it so you can be sure I'll be doing more of the same in the future. Also, don't be afraid to write long reviews, I know you said there was a lot to review about, but feel free! If you have the time- go for it! I LOVE long reviews especially if they go into specifics ;) Much appreciation for your thoughts :D**_

 _ **As always; good, bad or otherwise, I encourage you to review. They help the writing and posting process accelerate tenfold by knowing someone is looking forward to a new chapter. I promise you, all writers can agree with me on that one. Reviews are FANtastic motivators.**_

 ** _See what I did there? Didja see? Hehehe..._** ** _(I'll go get the dunce cap...)_**

 ** _Anyhoo- That's all for this installment, thanks again! Have a great weekend everybody!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**

 ** _p.s. did some google mapping: turns out Sri Lanka is an island just off the southeast coast of India- cool huh?! It's a tropical country so it can rain anytime, with mostly flat or rolling plains except for a south-central mountain range. The commercial capital is Colombo and they even have a 'City of Gems' named Ratnapura. They are practically a non-smoking country, and their main languages are Sinhala and Tamil._**

 ** _So, in regards to making me look it up,_ _Bohoma sthuthi, and Nandri (translates to 'Thank You' for those who don't speak the languages mentioned above) for the geographical lesson :) Enjoy reading!_**


	15. Decisions Amidst Conundrums

**_Hello readers!_**

 ** _I'm back! As promised :D YAY! Words cannot describe how frustrating it was to not be able to write for two weeks after having just had a writers block break through- ugh, torturous I tell you. BUT! It is done! The next chapter is here! I will not stall for too long, I've been doing enough of that lately... ~ So only two headnotes:_**

 _ **First, to SK9430: Thanks for favorite-ing the story! I hope you continue to enjoy it ;)**_

 _ **Second, to RangerRiver: You have my appreciation for favorite-ing and following- Thank you so much! I pray I don't disappoint :D**_

 _ **That's all for now! On with the 15th installment of Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

Deallus was patient by nature. It took a great deal of badgering or pestering to annoy her, and yet, as the search party marched on, that endless patience was beginning to wear thin. The riders behind her were quiet, solemn even, to the point at which talking would produce little in the way of value. She understood their silence; the sight of the refugees swarming to Castle Macindaw had been insurmountable, the smell of charred clothes, bloodied bandages, and burnt flesh still permeating her nostrils. The meaning was quite clear, a battle was approaching. Seemingly oblivious to the impending danger, Meralon's incessant need to appear important spurred his constant grumblings which, in turn, filled Deallus' ears until they rang. But it wasn't in Deallus' place to speak against him, not that she could if she tried; she was his _horse_ after all.

To her right, Blaize shook his mane, snorting in sympathy as his own rider leaned over to pat his neck fondly.

"I didn't realise that so many people lived in Marshwood." Gilan mentioned to the Platoon Commander, "It was to my knowledge that Marshwood was the smallest Fief in Araluen."

As the refugees had filed into the relative safety of Macindaw, Damara and Steven had recounted what they'd witnessed, a few of the villagers confirming the ranger's fears that it had been a Scotti raid. The three-hundred and some odd civilians had been packed into any available space within the castle, and the medbay filled past capacity with those wounded during the escape from Marshwood. After a quick consultation with Lord Orman, the two rangers had been dispatched with a platoon of knights to survey what was left of the eastern Fief. The reconnaissance group had ridden hard, making the nearly two day trek in just over half a day.

"A common misconception." Meralon sneered, answering for the Captain. "Though I couldn't expect one so inexperienced to know that Marshwood is in fact the _third_ smallest Fief in the kingdom."

"Mmm, yes, my mistake." Gilan replied dismissively, holding up a hand for the group to halt, "We should be close enough now, we'll travel the rest of the way on foot." At his command, the men at arms began dismounting, leading their horses towards the trees edge.

"What?" Meralon scoffed, "We must still be two miles away, what would be the point of walking so far when you can ride? Men, remount and prepare to move."

Hesitant at the conflicting orders, the knights remained where they were, neither moving to secure their horses within the treeline, nor remounting them as Meralon had suggested.

Gilan nudged Blaize closer to his older peer, speaking softly so as not to be overheard by the other men. "Ranger Meralon, the whole point of a reconnaissance team is to avoid detection while gathering intelligence. Riding into Marshwood, over a hill, astride _horses_ is the most palpable and idiotic move we could make."

Meralon's face went through a multitude of expressions in the span of the next few seconds; outrage at being called incompetent, grudging admittance that Gilan was indeed correct, severe contemplation as the man attempted to find some response to the younger ranger's statement, and finally settling on impotence as he dismounted.

"I see this is how low you've fallen, Gilan. Content to slink around in the woods like some measly hunter. There was such a time when we rangers were _respected_ _,_ you realize?" He replied in a hissed whisper. He then raised his voice, addressing the men at arms, "We'll go on foot from here. Captain, instruct two of your men to remain and watch the horses." Meralon then proceeded to lead Deallus by the bridle over to the shelter of the forest, securing the leather around a low-hanging branch.

Gilan followed suit, merely dropping Blaize's bridle next to the base of an evergreen and tapped the horse on the nose once: the signal for Silence. Until otherwise commanded, Blaize would remain where he was. It was one of the many signals his equestrian had learned as a colt from Old Bob, one of the ranger horse trainers.

The younger ranger then turned to the Platoon Commander, "Captain, keep your men back a ways as we move onwards. Ranger Meralon and I shall take point."

Trekking through the snow was slower going than Gilan had anticipated. The young ranger had to take care to avoid snow drifts, patches of ice, and other inconveniences that seemed to insist on hindering the group's progress. They stayed a fair way inside the treeline, at a distance where they could easily see the frost-covered paths while simultaneously being deep enough among the trees that an observer would be hard pressed to notice their passing. The armor clad warriors stumbled along behind the two rangers, as even the most dexterous of their movements paled in comparison to the silent glide of Gilan and Meralon. The captain was amazed so little sound could exist during an armed excursion; his men going through great pains to keep the clacking and clattering of their metal accessories to a minimum.

Meralon took no such precautions, the rasp of the yew longbow against his quiver echoing in the quietude. Gilan had to concede to the fact that an observer was more likely to hear the noise of the guards than the soft colliding of wood on leather; the understanding of which made Meralon's lack of caution no less infuriating to the younger man.

Gilan didn't have to put up with the inconvenience for long, as they crested the rise overlooking Marshwood Fief- or what was left of it. Gilan motioned for the guards to stop, scanning his eyes over the ruins for potential threats.

Marshwood had been constructed differently than the other Fiefdoms due to its unique limestone foundation. Instead of a centralized castle with outlying towns and villages, it opted for a more open layout with houses and marketplaces scattered across the valley based on the stability of the land underfoot.

It was decimated.

Outlying buildings had been leveled, fields of crops had been razed, guard towers had been toppled. Everything was burned a charcoal black that vividly clashed against the pure white snowscape. The once teeming valley was now a lifeless expanse of destruction.

"This makes no sense." Gilan mused quietly as he surveyed the damage, "Why here? Why now? What was the point of attacking Marshwood?"

Meralon scoffed, "You cannot see? Their plan is obvious. The intend to use the fief adjacent to Macindaw as their main Araluen stronghold. It's a logical move if they plan to take Macindaw next: Even someone so simple-minded should be able to deduce as much."

"That doesn't add up." Gilan responded, ignoring the backhanded insult. "If they were planning on creating a base of operations, why, then, are their forces not holding the town? Where did they all go?" Gilan swept his gaze over the ruins, "Something's off…"

Meralon cleared his throat, "Had it crossed your mind that perhaps they merely departed to gather and transport their supplies?"

"And leave no one to stand guard in their newly acquired territory?"

"Perhaps they are hidden-"

" Where?" Gilan interrupted, sweeping his hand to indicate the obvious lack of places to conceal a potential threat. "Besides, refraining from a show of force is hardly the Scotti way."

"Then enlighten me, Ranger Gilan; what do _you_ think they are doing?" Meralon retorted, his frustration mounting as the younger ranger continued to shoot down his theories.

"I'm not sure."

"You would reject my theory without supplying one of your own?"

"My lack of a theory does not validate yours. I'm not going to pretend I understand this latest move by our enemy when I am genuinely perplexed." Gilan iterated, "I don't see what they would stand to gain; aside from the aesthetic pleasure of destruction- which I highly doubt is their motive in such a situation. "

"I'm fluent in three languages, Ranger Gilan, and yet I have no clue what you are implying." Meralon frowned, suggesting, "They could be low on food supplies. Having raided the village for sustenance."

"That… is probably the most accurate conclusion you've provided thus far." Meralon bristled slightly at his younger peer's choice of words. "Although, if that were the case why would they risk so much? By the villagers accounts, there had been over two dozen Scotti warriors in the raid, nearly an entire clan."

"Fine, then, it was a pointless show of power- what other possible benefits could they reap, Gilan?" Meralon huffed, crossing his arms.

"In war, no move this calculated is pointless. But I can't deny I don't see what they would stand to gain by it. Unless… they weren't trying to gain anything at all. Hear me out," Gilan said, holding up a hand to stop Meralon from commenting, "Master MacNiel always said there are two reasons to act in a conflict; hinder your enemy, or aid yourself and your allies." Gilan explained, "So, if we can't understand what the Scotti could gain from this attack, let's instead look at how it has hindered us."

Meralon frowned as he realized the conundrum, "How does losing Marshwood harm Castle Macindaw?"

"That's the question we should be asking. So let's work backwards, what was the result of their raid?"

"Well, obviously, we lost Marshwood Feif." Meralon speculated, "We had been getting regular shipments of food from them."

"But Norgate and Caraway were also supplying some of their food stores, thus losing Marshwood only has a minor impact in that category." Gilan waved dismissively, "What else? What's happened as a result of the attack?"

"There were a lot of refugees who fled to Macindaw, we departed with a small force to investigate the event which, in turn, takes away from the overall fighting force at the garrison-"

"Refugees?" Gilan would have smacked himself upside the head if he thought the action would serve a purpose other than indicating his moment of clarity. "Of course! How did I miss something so obvious? It's the refugees: _that's_ why the Scotti attacked Marshwood."

"Ah…" Meralon nodded knowingly, scratching his chin for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head, "No… no, I do not follow. What exactly do you mean?"

"Half a dozen Scotti warriors is more than enough to eradicate a town, so why did so many people escape? It's because they _wanted_ the civilians to flee. The influx of survivors presents Macindaw with a grim ultimatum. If we send the refugees on to Norgate, away from the fighting, we'd have to provide armed guards to protect the civilians along the way. Which in turn weakens Macindaw's fighting force. However," Gilan continued,beginning to pace in the snow, "if the refugees stay at Macindaw, they'll be in the midst of one of the most devastating conflicts in the history of Araluen. The resulting civilian death toll would be unfathomable."

"Not to mention we'd have to at the very least attempt to protect them within the stronghold. We'd be down a whole platoon of soldiers at best." Meralon added, understanding dawning for the first time.

"Exactly." Gilan nodded gravely, "We've got a big decision to make."

* * *

The sun had just begun to set when she found him. She had seen him amidst the crowd of villagers fleeing from Marshwood, and she'd spotted him again when the refugees were being grouped and organized within the walls of Macindaw. It hadn't been easy, his hair had been darkened with soot, his clothes in tatters, and somehow he'd manage to add a fake mole on his cheek to complete the disguise. She'd followed him as he slinked behind the armory, turning the corner to see him leaning nonchalantly against the brick structure. He always did have a good sense for meeting points; the noise from the smithy would ensure that eavesdroppers would have difficulty hearing their words.

Or the clash of their blades. If it came to that.

"That look suits you." Damara commented, smiling ever so slightly. "You should really strive to make it permanent."

"So the intel was correct, then." His tone was carefully measured, unlike that of his facial features which contorted in annoyance. "There really was a Cloak in the enemy camp. Although, now that I know it's _you_ they were referring to, I'm quite surprised." He sneered, "I thought you would've run off by now."

The girl's eyes narrowed dangerously, "I'm no coward."

"Could've fooled me, Damara."

"So why are you here, Wulver? I doubt it's to reminisce on old times." She replied, crossing her arms. The motion was subtle, but Wulver's eyes flicked to her waist and she knew he'd seen her ready her blades. "So what does a Dagger like you want with me?"

" _Dagger_?" His eyes snapped back up as he laughed, "You've been gone too long, Damara. I'm a Blade now, or at least I will be upon my return."

Damara's mind pieced together the information much too slowly. Within the Organization, members were divided into two categories, Blades and Cloaks. Blades took care of the dirty work, assassinations, mainly, while Cloaks utilized more subterfuge in their endeavors, with manipulation and thievery as their prominent tools. The initiates for each category were called Daggers and Threads respectively. If Wulver claimed he would soon be promoting from initiate to Blade then, "This is your final trial?" Damara concluded.

Wulver smiled.

After a moment, the girl sighed, "Your mediocrity is unparallelled."

The smile vanished, " _What?_ "

"Sorry to disappoint," Damara elaborated, "But if you were sent to assassinate someone in Macindaw I'm afraid it just highlights your Doyen's lack of confidence in you. There are no important figureheads worth dethroning, no fundamental magistrates in need of relocating, nobody of importance that needs killing. To put it in terms you would understand." Damara shrugged, "It's the sad truth, Wulver; I guess you just can't handle the big jobs."

The fury was no longer contained to just his expressions as he snarled, "Always acting as if you're superior to the rest of us when you're no more than an Expendable who Papi took pity on."

"You're correct on one account." Damara shot back, her voice flat, "I _am_ superior to the rest of you. Especially a simple minded Dagger such as yourself."

In the blink of an eye, Wulver had drawn and moved to engage, his eyes trained on her waist. He obviously recalled her earlier motion and planned to cut off her retaliating draw- and if a tendon or two was sliced in the process, who was he to care?

Wulver's kukri spun in a downward arc towards the hands she was moving, seeing in his mind's eye that the strike would connect. Damara wrinkled her nose at his rotten smile of success. The fool wasn't even taking the opportunity presented to him- her hands were positioned far too _obviously_ and leaving her center with a lowered defense, but she wasn't one to- oh wait, she _was_ one to judge. He was a fool.

Instead of predictably going for the draw, she pushed off of the foot she'd been leaning on, grunting slightly with the effort it took for her knee to reach the height of his chest. Due to their difference in size, her attack landed in his gut as opposed to the sternum she'd been aiming for- pity, that. A few broken ribs would've taught him not to rush things. As it were, the impact still drove the breath from his lungs, the force of the blow causing him to stumble backwards. Damara drew her blades slowly, methodically, as she watched his slow recovery from the first hit.

"You are only considered skilled amongst the inept. Your move was predictable- three years of training with Papi must've gone in one ear and out the other. Or was simply keep up with me too much for you to handle?" Damara taunted, Papi's voice echoed in her mind ' _Fighting angry is the equivalent to fighting stupid. Don't fight stupid, Damara._ '

It seemed that Wulver had never learned that lesson. Blades were used to one hit kills, not long, drawn out confrontations. Already Damara had the upper hand mentally. His first strike had missed: he'd already lost.

Despite her galling lecture, Wulver wasn't _completely_ incompetent, and his next flurry of attacks proved as much. Damara found herself on the defensive, even with her two blades. The silent fury in her opponent drove each strike to be more forceful than the last, causing Damara to give ground under each strike. The difference between their muscle masses became prominent, the girl never having been more frustrated in the unfairness of genetics.

While Wulver may have honed his brute force, Damara had perfected her mind. Even with the clash of steel ringing in her ears, her mind was already piecing together the pattern of her opponent's strikes, searching for an opening to retaliate. It was an automatic process she'd learned to control and trust, one that allowed her to be both engaged in battle, and yet, completely oblivious to it while formulating a plan.

Then Wulver slipped up, his strike flying wide as Damara moved into a more open space. It was minute, barely a fraction of a second in which to act. Damara had been watching and waiting for such an advantage- she couldn't very well let it go to waste now could she? The girl deflected the wobbly thrust from Wulver's kukri to the left, using the momentum to spin inside his defense and slam her elbow into his gut- intentionally, this time. The blow alone would naturally make anyone double over in pain. This being the second time he'd been hit in that area, Wulver's reaction was _much_ more satisfying. He simply melted in place, slumping over Damara's angled arm only to crash to the ground, where he proceeded to curl into the fetal position groaning pitifully.

Barely containing a laugh, Damara plucked his blade from his hand and held one of her own butterfly daggers under his chin. "Match. I win." She said coyly, breathing heavily from the brief, close-quarters exchange, "As you can see, Wulver dear, my superiority complex is fully justified." Damara said once she'd calmed her breathing.

"Hah… hahaha… is it though?" Wulver managed to say between inhales.

Damara frowned in confusion, but no sooner had the words left his mouth when she felt the cool steel of metal against the back of her neck.

"Let him go." A monotone voice said.

Breathing out angrily through her nostrils, Damara complied, the pressure on her skin retracting as soon as she'd done so. The girl turned, surprised to see a boy of no more than seven years of age resheathing his small dagger. Damara scowled and looked at Wulver, "An Expendable?"

Expendables were equivalent to the bastard category of the Organization. A group not officially part of either group, but still present, nonetheless. A branch that Papi himself had facilitated into existence. He'd gathered up war orphans, street urchins, and any other youngster with no reason to live and trained them to be a group of replaceable tools for the Organizations use. Expendables would complete their mission at all cost; if they survived, they got another mission, if not… well, they were called Expendables for a reason.

Damara looked down at the boy, "What's your name?" She asked.

"Who _cares_?" Wulver quipped, rolling his eyes.

Damara ignored him, "Your name." She insisted.

"Fingal." The boy answered after a hesitant moment. "I'm called Fingal."

Dmara nodded, turning to face Wulver, "So what trial is so important that an initiate would need the support of an Expendable? No one in Macindaw is that dangerous."

"Oh but someone is. And I was told to enlist your help in silencing the target."

Damara was intrigued despite herself. "Okay, I'll bite: Who's the mark?"

"The ranger."

Damara hid her surprise; it seemed Papi was aware of the enemies skillset, and had acted accordingly. No wonder he'd sent an Expendable with the Blade initiate; killing a ranger would be difficult from what she'd seen. There was only one question remaining, "Which one?"

Wulver frowned, "There are more than one?"

"Last I checked." Damara nodded.

"Then as many as there are hearts beating." Was his quick response. His next words seemed to be forced, "I would… _appreciate_ any intel you could provide me with. Tch- don't look so smug!" He scoffed, "I was told to work with you, and so I will. Although if you choose not to help I'll be perfectly capable of doing this task on my own."

"You'd die before you even lay eyes on a ranger without my help." Damara said, realizing just how difficult this mark would be. Gilan would be surrounded by his allies constantly- be it soldiers or that other ranger; and as incompetent as Meralon had seemed, he was still a ranger. At the same time, Wulver would have the element of surprise on his side, and if he got within range, Damara had no doubt he could silence the ranger with a single strike. The hard part would be getting close enough to attack. Gilan had proven his intellect during the barge skirmish, the way he'd easily seen through the ambush was impressive, and he was skilled enough to hold his own against multiple opponents.

The deciding factor in this trial would be determined by subterfuge. Getting close enough to attack without raising suspicion. And Damara had already secured such a position. All she would need to do is produce an opening for Wulver, and secure an escape from Macindaw once the deed was done.

Damara would be the factor to tip the scales in Wulver's favor if she aided him.

He was still sputtering in outrage at her last comment when she threw him what he needed. "Alright, I'll help you. I'll help you kill the rangers."

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **A few final announcements: First, let me just apologize again for the extended delay. Life was being uncooperative again, but that's no excuse for tardiness. While I was away at the NG annual training, I actually had another moment of clarity regarding this fanfic story and a block I had been rapidly approaching, so my drive to write has never been stronger. As such, I will do my utmost to stick to a weekly posting schedule. Every Thursday, preferably before noon on said Thursday.**_

 _ **That being said I will not sacrifice quality for quantity. You guys deserve nothing less than my absolute best and that's what you'll get. Every time. Even if I that means being a day or two late in posting. But I won't stop writing as long as y'all keep reading, deal? Deal :)**_

 _ **Finally, to Guest (from Chapter 1): First, if you've read this far, YAY! Thank you :) Secondly, no, not the Brom from Eragon, hahaha, I actually never really got into that series, I read the first book but after that it got a bit too political for my liking (as a then nine-year-old girl, haha). I'd have to reread/rewatch Eragon and look for similarities. Either way, I hope you like his character regardless. Thank you for the review! It made me smile a lot :D (- me smiling)**_

 _ **And to Ranger McCorken (from Chapter 6): By now you know there wasn't a longbow in that battle- sorry, but the close quarters of the trees made a sword seem like the more logical choice. Plus, who doesn't enjoy a good sword fight? Amiright? ;) Don't worry though, when the fat hit the fryer there will be lots of enemies to shoot at. Thanks for reading this far, I appreciate your comment- made me smile and wince since I knew what you would be reading next. Hope you continue to enjoy the story! :)**_

 _ **As always, please comment and review and rant and rave and criticize and suggest and- well, you get the gist ;) Even if you do not have an official Fanfiction account drop me a review. I read them all and genuinely appreciate every single one.**_

 _ **Thanks again! Wishing everyone a belated Happy Mothers Day!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	16. Healing and Hurting

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **Nothing much to say here. This chapter is slightly shorter than some of the previous ones (averaging 2,500 words), only because I felt that including all of the scenes I had planned would make it a bit too muddled. That said, next week's update is already in the works- Yay!**_

 _ **That's all for now!**_

 _ **Please enjoy the 16th installment of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

Castle Macindaw's small medical ward was overflowing with patients. How it was possible to be short on medical supplies _before_ the fighting had even begun was beyond Malcolm at this point; the healer weaving between the makeshift cots as he attended to the most critical of patients. Since his arrival two days prior- had it really only been _two_ days?- the healer had been working tirelessly to treat the influx of patients from Marshwood Fief.

He knelt next to one of the men at the front of the room, where the most severe injuries were being treated. The patient's right arm had been trapped under a burning piece of timber, Malcolm had been told, and the angry red marks running the length of his bicep and brachioradialis supported the claim. The healer frowned as he noticed a thin outline of pale green liquid trapped beneath the surface of some of the scabs. He called over one of the three healers, pointing out the issue. "Drain the wounds that have pus, then redress them." Malcolm instructed, frowning as he identified the diminishing pile of gauze strips. "I'll bring you some more sterilized bandages." He offered, the other healer nodding as he got to work cleaning the man's wounds.

Malcolm made for the storage closet, his mind wandering to marvel at the ease in which the other healers had fallen under his directive. There was no denying that he had more experience than the castle medics in such matters, their main concerns were usually restricted to treating minor injuries that soldiers sustained from long bouts of hard training, whereas he was more used to dealing with abnormal remedies to cure unusual situations. A pain reliever targeting only the upper back for Luka. A poultice to cure stomach poisoning for Lord Orman. Not to mention the numerous diseases he'd helped eradicate with his medicines back when he still held residence in Norgate. Most of such remedies the healer had needed to create himself via experimentation, trial and error, using only what was made available to him at the time. And yet, despite his more robust methods, Macindaw's medics had been quick to obey his instruction as he ordered cots to be set up, poultices to be concocted, and water to be boiled for bandages.

It didn't seem to matter who was in charge so long as people's lives were saved.

Malcolm reached the supply closet, opening the door to the small walk-in space to find that it was as he'd feared, they were out of bandage strips. In addition, nearly all of his burn ointments had been consumed by the most severe cases. Malcolm had to resort to using the homely remedy of honey for minor blisters; the head chef having been not the least bit pleased when the monk-like man had barged into the kitchens and demanded their small store of the sweet syrup.

At the recollection, an idea blossomed in Malcolm's mind and he called over one of the other medics. "Head to the kitchens," Malcolm said. "Gather as many empty potato sacks and grain bags as you can. Once you get them bring them back and start cutting them into strips," Malcolm explained, understanding dawning on the younger man's face.

"I'll stop by the stables as well and see if they have any empty feed bags we can use." The young man said, turning and hurrying on his way.

Malcolm smiled at the young man's initiative, it was unorthodox, substituting sacks for real bandages. Living in Grimsdell woods for the past few years had taught the older healer not to be picky with supplies. He'd learned to adapt his practice based on the availability of resources, a skill he had grown quite fond of. So long as they thoroughly sterilized the sacks, the healer had no qualms about using his atypical methods here.

Malcolm then proceeded to continue his rounds, applying ointment here, adhering a dressing there, changing a cold compress every so often. Eventually, the young medic returned, Malcolm directing him to cut the material into long strips and then stew them in boiling water for a few minutes.

The day progressed in similar fashion, Malcolm and the other medics continually treating and comforting the patients, civilian and soldier alike. Minutes stretched into hours, and eventually- blessedly- the ward of pained patients fell silent with only the occasional snore or groan. At long last he and the other medics could rest, in some sense of the term. In reality, the four healers would take turns remaining awake throughout the night, continuously checking on the patients in case there was an emergency.

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose and fought to suppress a yawn. Despite the protest of his eyelids, he knew that as the chief healer it was his responsibility to ensure that the other medics were well rested. As such, Malcolm waved the other healers away, conveying that he would offer to take the first shift in so little words.

The three exchanged a look, making no move to return to the makeshift sleeping area set aside for themselves. The young medic from earlier stepped up, resting a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Why don't you get some sleep, we can take care of the rest for tonight."

Malcolm shook his head, the slight motion more dizzying than he would've expected. "I'll take my turn like the rest of you."

The young medic smiled, "So you say; but you worked through the last two nights. We know because we're not stupid." The man explained at Malcolm's confused look, "We all worked through that first night, and you were awake during my shift yesterday evening. When I asked, you said you'd sleep after another hour. Four hours later you said the same thing to George," the healer gestured to one of the medics behind him, "and you were still awake by the time Harley's shift ended." The healer once again motioning to his fellow constituent.

Malcolm frowned, _had he done that?_ \- last night had seemed like ages ago.

The young man before him looked serious now. "You've been working for three days straight, Malcolm. You need a full night's rest."

"The patients…" Malcolm looked over at the rows of cots. There were just so many.

"We'll take care of them," The young man reassured, smiling warmly. "The worst of it seems to be over, thanks to your assistance. We may not be as knowledgeable when it comes to this sort of stuff, but we are still healers, we took an oath to save lives and that's what we'll do."

Malcolm hesitated for another moment before conceding, "Very well…"

"Dylan." The young man supplied.

"Very well then, Dylan. I leave them in your care for tonight." Malcolm made for the back room, pausing and turning as a thought struck him, "If anything happens-"

"We'll let you know." Dylan interrupted, making a shooing gesture at the older healer, "Go, get some rest."

* * *

After careful consideration, hours of endless deliberation and reflection, Brom found there was no other conclusion to draw. He had wracked his brain to try and think of another outcome but none seemed evident. At long last he had to submit to the truth: He absolutely _hated_ winter. Not that the other seasons didn't have their downsides. But the cold season seemed to hog all of the major nuisances for itself: each gust of wind chilled him to the bone, each step he took only ensured his books would become wet from the snow, each time he prepared to head out into the world he was never mentally ready for the brutishly cold temperatures.

Not to mention that the frigid weather turned Norgate into a barren wasteland devoid of life. An unfortunate side effect, seeing as Brom's main intent in coming to the northern Fiefdom was in search of information. Information that would be near impossible to attain when there was _no one to talk to!_

With a groan, Brom admitted that he was getting nowhere fast. And with that being the case, he made the executive decision that he'd get just as much done sitting inside the inn and tavern, cupping a bowl of porridge in hand while sitting next to a roaring fireplace.

Brom nodded, confident in his next plan of action as he set out back the way he'd came, retracing footsteps that were already fading thanks to the meticulous, continuous snowfall. As he neared his destination, the minstrel heard the soft pad of hooves from up ahead, his own steps directing him to the side of the street as was proper courtesy. He brushed flakes from his hair, looking up to see a procession of over two dozen armored men pass by. Leading them was a man adorned with a red cape, seated astride a black mare battle horse.

The weary cortege barely acknowledged the minstrel, the men trudging steadily onwards at a forced march pace. Brom watched them pass, noting the coat of arms on the flag bearer's flag. Two majestic stallions reared back on their hind legs flanked a shield, the latter split into four quadrants with various details in each section. A banner curving beneath the escutcheon while a decorative crown presided over it. With the factor of wind, the bard had difficulty making out the specifics of the image. Brom made a mental note to ask Berrigan the significance of the design upon his return; his old mentor having departed early for some important meeting.

As he stepped back into the world of warmth, the minstrel held nothing but sympathy for the armored men he'd passed earlier. Even without the added discomfort of heavy, metal armor, the bard was already chilled to the bone from his short excursion. He heard a laugh and looked up to see the bartender smiling at him.

"Back so soon, I see." The man called, a smile in his voice. "Did you find what you were looking for, then?"

With an equally friendly grin Brom crossed the room to stand before the hearth, "All I found out there was frostbite and an explanation as to why birds migrate south in the winter." After a moment's thought, Brom added, "And I confirmed that I could use a nice steaming bowl of porridge if you've got any left from this morning?"

The bartender nodded, "I'll see if we've got any left. Should I have Lilah put on a kettle for you as well?"

"If you would be so kind." Brom replied, sighing as he eased himself into one of the tables next to the fireplace. The taproom was empty at present, a rare time that was too late for breakfast, and yet too early for the lunch crowd. It was peaceful. Brom reclined, folding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes, enjoying the tranquility of the moment.

He should've known it wouldn't last long.

"Here you are, sir, your meal and- _you!_ " The accusatory word followed by the unmistakable sound of a bowl shattering as it hit the floor.

Brom's eyes flew open as he stood and turned in one fluid motion. The serving girl had indeed dropped the bowl of porridge, it's contents now spilled across the hardwood floor. The teacup had fared slightly better, there was only a nasty chip on its lip, the steaming liquid that had once been inside now staining the front of the serving girl's apron. But what concerned Brom most at the moment was the hand she had drawn back, her open palm stiff with anger as she drew it forwards to slap across his face.

With deft precision, Brom caught the girl by the wrist before she could land the blow. The girl struggled, unsuccessfully trying to escape from his grip, all the while saying, "How _dare_ you come back here like this! You _promised_ to take me with you and I- I thought I told you I never wanted to see your ugly mug again! I-"

"Um- pardon me." Brom interrupted, releasing his grip, "But I believe you've mistook me for someone else."

It was a full five seconds before the serving girl managed to pick her jaw up off the floor. "I'm _so_ sorry." She gushed. "It's just that you look like- I mean I mistook you for- I'm am _so_ sorry."

"What's going on out here?" The bartender asked as he reemerged from the kitchen, he frowned at the sight of the broken bowl, "Lilah! What in the-"

"I'm at fault, sir." Brom said, cutting him off with an apologetic look, "I went to stand up and knocked into her. I can repay you for the damaged dish." He offered.

The bartender blinked, then shrugged. "That's alright, no harm no foul. We've got plenty of extras. Lilah!" The girl started at being called out, "Go and fetch him another bowl, then clean up that mess."

"Yes'sir." The girl mumbled.

"Wait-" Brom frowned, "Uh, Miss Lilah, was it?" The girl nodded her confirmation, "Do you mind telling me why you confused me with this… other person?"

"I'm sorry," Lilah said again, "It's just that you look exactly like him, although his beard was a bit fuller than yours and you have slightly darker hair now that I'm looking properly." She explained. "But when you spoke I realized you weren't him. I'm so sorry, sir."

Brom twisted the silver band on his index finger, "Where is this other man now? Is he still in town?"

"Oh, no, sir." Lilah shook her head, "He left about a week ago, that's why I thought…" The girl flushed a deep red, refusing to continue that line of thought.

Brom decided he wasn't going to pry, instead asking, "Did he happen to say where he was going?"

"East, I think." Lilah shrugged, "He said he didn't have an end destination in mind."

Brom nodded, "One last question, if you please." At her nod he continued, "This man, what did he call himself?"

Lilah frowned for a moment, "It was a strange name, foreign, really. Ebronimus? Ehbreous?"

"Ebrommius?"

"That's the one." Lilah nodded, "I'll go fetch you your meal, sir, my apologies, again."

The bard barely noticed her leave, sitting back down heavily in the hardwood chair. He ran a hand across his face, taking a deep breath as he did, the firelight glinting off of his ring and he stared at the pure silver band for a long moment. The same thought replaying itself over and over in his mind: _I've found you._

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **First, to Guest (from Chapter 15): Thanks for pointing out the misspelling! Totally glanced over it in my edit- but it's fixed now thanks to a certain studious reader. I'm glad you can appreciate the dilemma Macindaw has been presented with. I wonder what solution they'll concoct? ;) Thank you so much for the review!**_

 _ **Secondly, to ByTheOldOak: I'm oh-so-happy to see another review! I am in total agreement with you when it comes to Gil's predicament. As for Meralon I'm very glad he's still within the bounds of his character- I thought it may have been too much last chapter but who knows, maybe he'll start to have a change of heart? And I practically cheered upon reading that the insight to Damara's background helped clear up some confusion. My initial worry was that it would only confuse things more. So I truly value that input from a vivid reader such as yourself. Thanks for the comment! Hope you enjoyed this chapter as well.**_

 _ **Lastly, as always, please comment, review, criticize, rant, rave and whatever else you want to do in the little comment box down below.**_

 _ **See you next week! Have a great Memorial Day weekend!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	17. The Way Back

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **Next installment is up! Please enjoy, I spent a lot of time on this chapter, so it's a bit longer than average :) (~3,500 words)**_

 _ **Quick note: I have a Drill Weekend this Saturday/Sunday so I may not be able to post next week (or it might be a bit late) due to the loss of internet connection. But never fear! I've got a pretty clear idea of what the next chapter will be so I should have something out sooner than later :) Thanks in advance for your patience.**_

 _ **Without further ado (that's such a weird word... ado), I present Chapter 17 of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

It was dark by the time Berrigan returned to the Ample Apple tavern. He rubbed his eyes wearily as he clambered up the steps, his wooden leg clopping against the stone structure. His meeting with the Battlemaster that mid morning had been enlightening, albeit, not very encouraging.

 _"You summoned me, Battlemaster?" Berrigan inquired, bowing his head slightly as protocol dictated he should. There were two men in the small office room, Sir Doric, the Battlemaster of Norgate, and a red caped knight. The men were seated across from one another, a large oaken table between them. As he approached them, Berrigan could see that a map of the Fiefdom had been spread out on the desk._

 _"Berrigan, welcome." Sir Doric nodded to the empty seat, "Please, sit."_

 _As the old minstrel lowered himself into the stiff wooden chair, he couldn't hold back a groan of relief; climbing up three flights of stairs with a wooden peg for a leg was quite taxing._

 _Sir Doric nodded, beginning the introductions while the bard recovered, "Berrigan, may I introduce Sir Wallace, Captain of the Araluen Royal Guard, Unit A. Sir Wallace, this is Berrigan, retired member of the Ranger Corp."_

 _The two men shook hands, Berrigan nodding to the knight, "Captain." He said, respectfully._

 _"Ranger." Sir Wallace replied in kind._

 _"Not anymore, I'm afraid." Berrigan smiled, patting his peg leg. The minstrel refocused on the Battlemaster, "But I digress. You summoned me for a reason, Sir Doric." It was more a statement than a question, the unspoken query understood by the Battlemaster all the same._

 _"Yes," Sir Doric began. "The reason I called you is because-"_

A gust of warmth and light and music flooded Berrigan's senses, his mind refocusing on the present as he shut the tavern door behind him. The Ample Apple had a fair sized crowd that evening, the old minstrel easily spotting his former pupil as he played the last lick of a tune. It's chord rang as a round of hearty applause arose from the patrons.

Brom ducked his head in gratitude, fiddled with the strings some, then smiled widely at the occupants. "This next one I wrote myself. Please hold your applause and rotten tomatoes until the end." Berrigan couldn't help chuckling with the others as he began making his way towards the bar.

The introductory chords were quick and merry, mirroring that of a bouncy Celtic jig. Berrigan had just made it to the bar when Brom began the first verse, singing:

 _There's a tale I know, a tale I know well,_

 _Of a legendary figure and of the villains he felled._

 _This tale is true, as true as can be,_

 _'Bout a hero we call Ranger Will Treaty._

 _._

 _You know him as the hero who burned down the bridge,_

 _The warrior who made sure the Kalkara singed,_

 _Defeated twelve Wargals and travelled 'cross the sea,_

 _To repel an armed invasion of Temunji._

 _._

Brom's brow furrowed slightly as he altered the melody, the slight wrinkle in his skin the only indication of his utmost concentration.

 _Yes, this man has done more than most,_

 _He has courage and bravery and more,_

 _But this tale stems from when our hero was young,_

 _When he slayed the Redmont Boar._

 _._

Berrigan found his eyebrows rising as his former student went on to sing about how, after a nameless knight from Redmont slayed the first boar, a second beast- twice the size of the first- had emerged from the brush, charging towards the unsuspecting men. At the last second, the hero Will Treaty had distracted the boar, putting himself in harm's way so that- at the time- his mentor, Halt could deal the finishing blow. With one final chorus detailing the bravery of one so young, Brom played a quick ending lick and let the song dissipate, the final chord reverberating through the rafters.

There was polite applause at the songs conclusion, the patrons appreciating the music while whispering among themselves. Berrigan didn't need to eavesdrop to determine the subject of the hushed conversations; Ranger Will Treaty was a well-known living legend, the man who'd defeated a Kalkara with a single arrow. Surely he didn't need help defeating one measly boar?

Berrigan slipped over to sit besides Brom as the latter put his lute aside, digging into the half-eaten pot pie on the counter. "A bold choice." Berrigan commented casually, calling to the bartender and ordering a small plate of pot roast.

Swallowing, Brom glanced over, "Writing an original song? I do that all the time."

"Telling the truth." Berrigan replied, leaning his arms on the countertop. "Where'd you hear that story anyway?" In all the versions Berrigan had come across, Will usually ended up single handedly killing both boars with well-placed arrows. Berrigan, being a former ranger and, as such, having met the man in question, knew that Brom's lyrics were incredibly accurate to the actual events.

Brom shrugged, "Heard about it from a young minstrel in Seacliff Fief." He replied before shoveling in another mouthful of his semi-warm meal. Berrigan smiled to himself, saying, "By the way, you mispronounced a word."

Brom glanced over in confusion, his furrowed brow seeming to say, _I did?_

"You did." Berrigan confirmed, "You said Temunji with a 'gee' sound. It's actually pronounced Temujai. Teh-moo-g-aye. No 'n', either."

Brom shrugged, "It's a work in progress; I had to make the rhyme scheme work. Besides," He winked. "You're one in a handful of people who'd actually be able to spot the discrepancy." The serving boy brought out Berrigan's meal and the two minstrels tucked into their respective dinners. A thought seemed to strike Brom mid-bite, and he looked over at Berrigan.

"'Ere 'er oo doday?" He asked around a mouthful of food.

Berrigan rolled his eyes and sighed, "Manners, boy. It's high time you learned them."

Brom began to laugh, which, unfortunately for him, was difficult to do with a face stuffed with pot pie. The laugh turned into a half coughing, half choking escapade that endured until the younger man managed to gulp down the food, following it up with a long swig of water. An amused Berrigan watched as Brom pounded his chest a few times for good measure before asking his question again.

"Where were you today?"

Berrigan considered teasing his former student by intentionally answering vaguely, a stunt he recalled Brom using more often than not during his training, but eventually decided against it. His nearly choking seemed to be payback enough; for now. "I had a meeting with Sir Doric. The Battlemaster." Berrigan explained.

"Ah," Brom nodded, filing away the information. He frowned, "Did it have something to do with the column of knights that marched through town earlier?"

Berrigan huffed, the younger bard could be incredibly perceptive when he wished to be. "Yes, actually. Those were the reinforcements from Araluen, the unit moves out for Macindaw tomorrow morning. He wanted my input determining the best routes for supplies and food shipments."

Brom frowned, silent for a long moment as he finished up the scraps from his meal. That done he looked back at his old mentor, "Why did you really come to Norgate, Berrigan?"

"S'cuse me?"

"I'm no fool." Brom said with a rueful smile, "The only reason for a minstrel to come this far north during the cold season is desperation. A lack of coin, if you would." He explained. "You've never been short on change. Furthermore, I highly doubt the Battlemaster would require your help to determine a route through the Fiefdom _he_ oversees. So why are you really here?"

Berrigan amended his earlier statement; his former student was _annoyingly_ perceptive. "I'm filling in for Meralon as temporary ranger of Norgate." He said, "When Crowley received the reports of Scotti raids he asked me to do him a favor."

"He reinstated you?"

"Oh no." Berrigan laughed, "I'm still _very_ much retired."

Brom raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Finally admitting you're getting old?"

"You'd love that wouldn't you," Berrigan scoffed, "No. Crowley wanted me here in case Meralon needed to be called away."

Brom nodded in understanding, "You would serve as a fallback. Smart."

"Most of us rangers tend to be." Berrigan smiled briefly, continuing on to say, "I'm leaving with the unit tomorrow."

"What?" Brom, who had raised the cup of water to his lips, put it back down. "Why?"

"Well for one, it'll make for a great story." The older bard began, "For another, Sir Doric received a concerning message from Macindaw last night. He believes they may be in deep water."

"Oh, okay. Hang on-" Brom's brow furrowed, "How did he get a message from Macindaw? I don't remember seeing a courier on my way here. And I took the most direct route."

"Messenger pigeon." Berrigan answered, elaborating, "The Diplomatic Service trained the birds to carry messages between fiefdoms by returning to their last place of rest. Once a pigeon has flown back to it's home base, it would be ready to return to the spot at which it had been released."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"Mmm." Berrigan responded as he tucked into his meal.

"So…. Sir Doric is sending _you_?" Brom prompted after a long moment, glancing meaningfully down at his companion's wooden peg leg.

This time, Berrigan did not repress the urge to smack his former pupil upside the head, nodding in satisfaction at the younger man's reactionary _'Ow!'_ of irritation. "Just because I may not be able to run around like a horse does _not_ mean that I am utterly useless, boy."

"Agreed." Brom said meaningfully, rubbing the back of his scalp, "If they ever get close enough you can certainly whack the enemy to death."

* * *

The black substance in the vial was certainly _not_ ash.

After ensuring that the other healers could cover his absence, Malcolm had made his way to the back room of the medical ward, where another dilemma awaited him. The day he'd arrived at Macindaw, he'd been given a small vial filled with a black granular substance. The knight who'd delivered it explained that they had come across the substance during a scouting mission the previous week, and asked for Malcolm's help in determining what it was.

Then Malcolm's focus had been diverted to the refugees for the remainder of that day and the two proceeding it. Now, for the first time since being assigned the task, the healer was able to study the substance in detail. As it had been gathered from a Scotti campsite, his first assumption had been that the powder was ash. One thing the Scotti feared above all else was a mythical being named Serthrek'nish, the flesh eater, the renderer, the terror of limbs. The only way to keep the demon away was to encircle an area with ash: everything within the circle would be safe from it's devilish reach. Of course, Serthrek'nish was a mere superstition. But Malcolm knew- better than anyone- that superstition, if strong enough, would be viewed as reality.

What was perplexing was that the black powder wasn't ash. It was much too coarse. Malcolm rubbed the grains between his thumb and forefinger, then lifted it to his nostrils and took a quick whiff, recoiling as the stench of rotten eggs permeated the air.

 _Sulfur_ , he realized with a frown, it's pungency having been subdued by other, unidentifiable odors. Squinting, Malcolm could make out small grey flakes peppering the mixture. Upon closer inspection, the flakes looked eerily similar to saltpeter. The healer felt a growing sense of dread as he continued to test the substance, hoping for the first time that his diagnosis would be wrong.

* * *

By now, most of the dinner guests had left the Ample Apple, shuffling home through the snow, coats and scarves drawn tight against their bodies to conserve what little warmth remained. Inside the tavern, Brom nursed a cup of tea between his palms, carefully considering how he was going to tell Berrigan of what he planned to do. The older minstrel sighed contentedly, lowering the mug of coffee as he wiped at his lips. Releasing a breath of his own, Brom decided that being blunt was probably the best course to take.

"I'm coming with you." He said.

Berrigan looked over curiously, "Come again?"

"I'm coming with you." Brom repeated, "To Macindaw."

"What? Why?"

If he was in a joking mood Brom would've pointed out that he had the same response earlier to Berrigan's announcement. As it were, he simply said, "I found him."

The older minstrel frowned for a moment, then his face cleared as he understood. "What makes you think he's at Macindaw? I thought you said you didn't see anyone when you left to come here?"

"I didn't." Brom confirmed, "But I was talking to the waitress earlier and it appeared that he'd… left a strong impression on the girl. She'd mistaken me for him and we had a brief confrontation. In the end, she told me that he had headed east. So since I didn't see him between Macindaw and Norgate-"

"You reached the conclusion that he went to Marshwood." Berrigan interrupted.

Brom nodded. "I think he's trying to get to Gallica."

"He'd have a hard time of it." Berrigan mused aloud. Brom cocked his head and the older bard explained, "Marshwoods' ports and harbors are probably iced in for the season. If he really went east he'll be stuck there for a good while."

Unconsciously, the younger minstrel began twisting the ring on his index finger. "I'll get him this time, Berrigan." He said with considerable conviction, "I'm not letting him slip away again."

Berrigan looked at his former student and let out a breath, "You're sure."

"I'm sure."

Scratching his head, Berrigan realized that Brom would pursue this course of action regardless of his former mentor's advice. _In which case_ _,_ the old bard emptied his mug, standing and putting a hand on Brom's shoulder, "Best get to bed early then." He said. "We leave at sunup."

Brom audibly groaned as he watched Berrigan clomp over to the staircase, "There is such a thing as sleeping in, you know!" He called after the man.

* * *

"They'll leave tomorrow at first light." Lord Orman decided.

 _That was fast_ , Gilan thought, his eyebrows raised. Apparently the Captain of the guard felt the same, stepping forwards to voice his concern, "Are you sure, m'Lord? We would need to spare at least two platoons for the convoy."

"Make it three."

" _Three?_ " The Captain balked at the response, "With all due respect, Lord Orman, two is already more than enough, any more would just serve to weaken our own defenses-"

"I said three." Lord Orman didn't raise his voice, but the edge to his words was enough for the Captain to cease arguing. "We are still unsure as to the location of the Scotti's main camp. I don't want to present an opportunity for them to diminish our numbers further, and if they see a loosely guarded group of refugees they just might take that chance. If they are attacked there will undoubtedly be civilian casualties, _and_ we'll lose those two platoons permanently. We must deter any ideas of attack, and therefore we shall be sending three platoons to guard the refugees." The robed man looked around the room, meeting the eyes of all present. "Our first priority is to the people of Araluen. We shall do all we can to ensure they remain out of harm's way. Is that understood, Captain?"

"Yes'sir."

Lord Orman nodded, "Then see to it that preparations are underway, I want two carts ready to move out by morning. Any refugee able to walk will do so, load the carts up with the sick and injured. Only those in critical condition should remain in our medical bay."

With a salute, the Captain hurried from the room to perform his task, leaving only the two rangers and Lord Orman's steward, Xander, in the small office. There was silence for a long time, until Gilan finally let out a breath.

"Are you sure of this, my Lord?" He ventured.

Lord Orman rubbed his chin, "No." He said after a moment, "In all my days of studying I've never had to make such a poignant decision. So no. I am not sure if this move will save those civilians or doom them to a Scotti raid. However," He declared, resting his hand on the desk before him, "I have to believe that what I'm doing is the right call."

Gilan nodded solemnly. He could remember a time when he had to make a hard choice himself, and that had ended up with the capture of his friend and a princess. _Good times_ , he thought with a wry smile, _so much simpler back then_.

His wandering mind was interrupted at a hurried knock on the office door. Lord Orman nodded and Xander moved to admit whomever was outside. The oaken entrance had barely widened when Malcolm pushed his way into the room, panting slightly. Those assembled were shocked to see that his robes had been singed in a few places, various stains peppering the front of his clothes.

"What happened?" Lord Orman asked with a frown, standing from his chair.

Malcolm gave a tired smile, "I figured out what that black powder of yours does, that's what."

"Already?" Lord Orman sounded impressed, surprised, but impressed. "I had been studying it for days without any luck, how did you find out in just three?"

"Actually, my Lord," Malcolm corrected, "we've been quite busy in the medical bay, I only just got the time to begin testing it this morning."

Lord Orman was speechless for a good ten seconds, then he smiled, laughing as he sat down. He gestured for the healer to sit in one of the chairs around the room, "Let's hear it, then. What exactly is it?"

"Well," Malcolm began as he crossed the room, "It's made up of multiple components and-"

"Hold on," Gilan interjected, looking thoroughly confused as he held up his hand. "What black powder? What are you talking about?" Malcolm moved to sit in one of the chairs, sinking into the seat with a mumbled, 'I'm too old for this' while Meralon filled in his peer.

"Before you arrived, I had been sent on a scouting mission. We headed east along the Brushwood pass and found the remains of a Scotti campsite." The older ranger explained. "There we found a trail of black powder. I had the platoon commander take a sample for Lord Orman to study."

Gilan frowned, "The Scotti are superstitious. They always outline their camps with ash, how is that-"

"Oh, but this wasn't ash." Malcolm interjected.

"Yes," Meralon agreed, "It was much too coarse. That's the whole reason we brought back a vial of the substance."

"Okay." The younger ranger nodded, "So you've figured out what it is?" he said, addressing the question to Malcolm.

"Yes," The healer nodded. "As I had been saying, it's a compound of four or five substances. Sulfur, saltpeter, and sodium carbonate among them."

"Wait, those sound familiar." Lord Orman looked up at Malcolm with a frown, "Why do those sound familiar?"

The healer tapped the side of his nose knowingly, "I used a similar combination back when we were interrogating MacHaddish."

Lord Orman's confusion cleared while Gilan's only worsened. He had read Will's report of course, and knew that MacHaddish had been the Scotti general they'd captured and interrogated before the siege of Macindaw. Back when Sir Keren had attempted to take over the garrison and allow the northern men to invade Araluen. Gilan's friend and fellow ranger, Will Treaty, had successfully foiled Sir Keren's plans with the help of Horace Altman, Malcolm, and some Skandian sea raiders. It had been quite the story; with accounts of fiery flying faces, ghastly sounds, and the resurrection of the fierce sorcerer Mallkallam in order to get the Scotti to divulge Sir Keren's plans.

That still didn't explain what the powder's components signified, however. Gilan looked at the healer, "So what exactly does this compound do? What's it's purpose?"

Malcolm's expression became serious. "It's a volatile substance."

"Volatile?" Meralon questioned, "How so?"

With a light laugh, the healer gestured to his singed clothes, "Let's just say I didn't ruin my robes intentionally. Back when we were interrogating MacHaddish, I concocted a brew of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal that, when placed under extreme heat, would release energy so fast it would produce a loud noise and a burst of heat as a result. Basically," He simplified, "it would explode."

Lord Orman was frowning again, "And you said this black powder had the same components?"

" _Similar_ components," The healer corrected, "mixed in such a way that when it came in contact with a small flame it produced a much more violent reaction." After a moment of silence, Malcolm added, "The thing is… I can't see the Scotti producing such a chemical."

"Why's that?" Gilan asked.

With a sort of shrug, Malcolm replied, "It's a very complex compound; carefully measured and mixed, crafted cautiously so as not to induce a less productive result. I don't think the Scotti are capable of such craftsmanship. Not like this."

"So now the question becomes who did make it?" Meralon voiced.

"More to the point." Gilan nodded, "Who are the Scotti working with?"

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading.**_

 _ **Also... dun Dun DUN! The snowball is at the top of the hill and is just waiting for someone to give it a push ;) I know there hasn't been a lot of action in the past few chapters (like... the last 7, oops!) however that will change very soon. Spoilers! Hahaha... or is it? Heeheehee... ;P**_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **First, to TheOldOak: Thanks for the review- you don't know how much it means to me as an author that someone actually takes the time to share their thoughts. It's one of the best feelings in the world, so thank you for brightening my day :D I'm pleased you enjoyed the last chapter, writing out the healers was tricky because I'm not in any way knowledgeable in old-time medicine (thanks Google!) and it's an interesting perspective to show. Also, yes, Brom is DEFINITELY heading for trouble town, soon, I swear- authors promise! More action to come in the next few chapters; it's time to get the ball rolling.**_

 _ **Lastly, as always, please comment and review to your hearts content. I'm stoked that this story continues to grow in terms of daily views, but each viewing leaves some sort of impression with the reader, good/bad/what-have-you and I encourage you to share it with me. Needless to say it really encourages us authors to keep writing if we know someone enjoys the story.**_

 _ **That's all for now! Summer is coming- time to go buy a swimsuit! (whaddaya mean I'm gonna be too busy writing to go to the beach? NooooOOO!)**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	18. Preparations

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **I will not waste any time, I realize this post is late so...**_

 _ **Please enjoy Chapter 18 of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **Shoutouts and review responses will be at the end.**_

 ** _-Ardoa88_**

* * *

The news of the refugee caravan departing for Norgate spread through the ranks faster than a galloping Arridi horse. The survivors from Marshwood were informed a little after high noon, the refugees spending the remaining daylight hours preparing for the westward trek.

Steven helped out where he could, carrying crates of food and barrels of water to the carts, passing out blankets and extra clothes to those who needed them. There wasn't much else, but somehow the Ox driver managed to find _something_ to help with. Brushing down some of the knights horses, adjusting the girth on his oxen's harness, ensuring that the kitchen's stock of firewood never dwindled too low, even helping the chefs prepare the evening meal.

Anything to distract himself from the prospect of a Scotti raid.

He'd heard the men at arms talking about the possibility. It would be slim, seeing as Lord Orman was supplying the caravan with more than enough protection to deter an attack. And yet, Steven couldn't help but feel a sinking sensation that _something_ bad was looming on the horizon. As if this were the calm before the storm.

The Ox driver shook his head violently. Regardless of his gut feeling, he would do what needed to be done. As he always had. When the cold season had struck, Steven had taken to repairing roofs in Hawkentown to provide for his family. During the summer months he would sow his seeds and hunt game in the forest to put food on the table. When harvest came, he would open a stall in the marketplace and offer his goods to travellers and locals alike. Even so, despite his busy life he always, _always_ , managed to make time to play with his boys or relax with his wife.

And Steven would do whatever was necessary to return home to them.

The Ox driver was making his way across the courtyard when he saw a familiar head of scraggly hair sitting alone by one of the many campfires. Steven frowned, hadn't the ranger said that Brom had left for Norgate? Shrugging away the discrepancy, Steven reasoned that something must've come up on his travels to make him return, the Ox driver striding over and plopping down next to his friend.

"Back so soon, Brom?" Steven joked, "Gilan told me you were in Norgate by now."

A pair of dark emerald eyes looked over in surprise at the ox driver, a frown crossing his bearded features. "Uh, sorry, but… who are you?"

His voice was wrong. That was the inconsistency Steven noticed immediately. Brom had a light, uplifting tone. A melodic way of speaking that befitted a bard of his talent. The man sitting besides Steven had a deep, gravelly voice; as if it had been strained from years of shouting and yelling. The next difference was the hair, it was a little darker than the minstrels, just barely noticeable if one looked close enough: more hickory than tawny brown. His eyes were a shade darker as well. The other obvious tell, though, was the lack of an instrument. Brom rarely went anywhere without it strapped to his back, unless he had stowed it on Bartholemule's saddle, in which case, the mule itself would be nearby.

"Oh," Steven blinked. "I'm sorry, sir. I must've mistook you for someone."

A dark look clouded the stranger's face for a brief moment. It was quickly replaced by a cheerful smile as he said, "I get that a lot. What's your name, friend?"

Steven hesitated, wondering if he may have imagined the first reaction; the current expression seemed so genuine it was hard to imagine his features twisted in such loathing. "Name's Steven," He said, after a second, "I'll be driving one of the carts come the morro."

"A pleasure." The stranger said, "We appreciate your assistance."

"You came from Marshwood then?" Steven prompted.

"Not initially," The man replied honestly, "I was visiting a relative when the northerners attacked. I was fortunate to escape unscathed."

Steven nodded, "Aye, that you were. Those Scotti are a fearsome bunch, I hear."

"That they are." The man agreed.

The two lapsed into silence for a moment, until Steven finally said, "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't, actually." The man replied.

"Ah…" After another minute of silence, Steven realized the man was making no attempt to further that line of conversation. With a shrug he stood and brushed himself off, turning to head back to the kitchens. "Well, the chef's will have the evening meal ready soon. Be sure to stop by, we've a long day's ride ahead of us tomorrow."

"I will." The man nodded.

After waiting another moment in silence, Steven left, shivering slightly. Although, due to the weather or to his conversation with the mysterious man he couldn't say.

* * *

Amidst the commotion of preparing the caravan, no one noticed two boys slip quietly into the back alley of the armory. Nor did the guards on the parapet see the young girl leaning against the stone wall of the smithy, their attention diverted to the surrounding landscape. After all, the real threat was outside of the garrison, not within the gates.

"We have a problem." Wulver said.

"Oh?" Damara pushed off her perch. "Do tell."

"The caravan." Wulver explained, "It leaves tomorrow at dawn."

"So?"

"So, it's a little hard to eliminate the targets when we'll be two day's ride away in _another town_." Wulver threw up his hands as if the issue was obvious.

"And what do you want me to do about it?" Damara raised an eyebrow.

Wulver frowned. "I don't know. Talk to your ranger friend and see if you can convince him to push back the time schedule or something."

Damara let out a low bark of laughter, "Hah! As if I have that much authority. No, their minds are set on this, we won't be able to delay it, let alone stop it from happening." Wulver hissed through clenched teeth in irritation, but Damara wasn't finished. "But," She said. "We _can_ use this to our advantage."

"How." Wulver growled, "How could we _possibly_ turn this in our favor?"

Damara resisted the urge to point out how small minded her peer was, instead focusing on the plan developing in her mind. "When you were given your task, did Papi say something along the lines of 'may the stars watch over you'?"

Wulver frowned, attempting to recall his briefing.

"Yes." Both of the older teens looked at Fingal in surprise. The seven year old nodded, repeating himself. "Yes. He said those exact words."

"I'm glad _someone_ was listening." Damara muttered, successfully drawing out a glare from the Blade initiate. "It was a code phrase." She explained. "Whenever Papi says the stars are watching over you he's really saying that he's sending a Cloak to observe and report on the completion of a task."

Wulver frowned, "What do you mean? I fail to see how this can help us."

"I'm getting there." Damara replied, "The observer is not to interfere with an initiate's trial, only watch from afar and report back with an unbiased account of events that transpired."

"So _that's_ how he can always tell when someone's lying." Wulver muttered.

Damara found herself smiling, no doubt Wulver had been on the receiving end of Papi's lectures about honesty more than a few times. Honesty among assassins, spies, and thieves- it was a strange concept, even to Damara. But it was a rule Papi ingrained in them since the beginning: _Lie to your enemies, but never to your allies._

"Exactly. So if he has someone observing you, chances are they're not actually within the walls of Macindaw." Damara explained.

Wulver held up a hand, "Hang on, that makes no sense. How could an observer observe from outside the garrison?"

"It would be too suspicious if he were among the refugees." Damara reasoned. "Think about it. An older person stalking a young teenage boy? Instant red flag to the soldiers. This mission isn't really a trial, it's a calculated strategic move in a larger theater of operation." Damara elaborated. "The observer is positioned so that if something goes wrong with the task, the leader of that task- you, in this case- can make contact and request backup or assistance."

Wulver scoffed at her last statement. "As if I would need assistance taking out a simple mark."

Damara rolled her eyes, allowing her open palm to strike the boy on the back of his head. " _As if?_ " She quoted him, "Wulver, _this_ situation is exactly why Papi sent a Cloak to observe you. In case the unexpected arose. This is how we can turn this latest development in our favor." She went on, saying, "We know _when_ the caravan will leave, and we know _where_ their destination is. All we need to do if get the information to the observer, have him report back to Papi, and then have Papi organize an ambush."

"The attack will drive the refugees back to Macindaw." Wulver realized, "And then we'll be back in position to take out the marks."

" _Now_ you're thinking. For once." Damara muttered the last two words loud enough for the boy to hear. "Additionally, if I can convince the right people, we may be able to have one of the rangers escort the caravan."

Wulver picked up on her train of thought, "And in the commotion of the battle he could be fatally injured by one of the 'attacking Scotti'."

"Precisely." Damara nodded. "We can preserve our cover and complete half of your mission in one fell swoop. I'm sure Papi would also be pleased with the chance to reduce Macindaw's numbers."

"Let's do it." Wulver smiled, it was a smile that never reached his eyes.

"How will they know?"

The teens looked over at Fingal. "How will who know?" Damara asked.

The boy stared at his feet for a moment as he rephrased his question. "How will the observer know about the caravan if he's out there and we're in here?"

Damara grinned at the two males, "Leave that to me."

* * *

The quarter moon hung low along the western horizon. Under it's soft glow, the snowy peaks of the Bearback mountains gleamed a pale blue. In a small ravine, roughly a dozen miles northwest of what was once Marshwood Fief, a small smattering of campfires blazed. Canvas tents stood erect in the compact space, with barely enough distance between them to swing an axe. Only one large tent at the rear of the campsite was afforded a ring of space, it's cloth checkered in the blue and white of the MacKentick Clan.

A solitary figure strode towards this tent. His body swayed with the rhythm of the shadows that stole across the ground, his footfalls matching the natural progression of the clouds above. He reached the tent and slipped into its folds, the inside of which was illuminated by a central fire. The tent was barren, save for two cots set up along the far end; the two men who would occupy them currently being seated around the small fire.

One of the two bearded men looked up at the hooded man's entrance. "You bring news?" MacKentick asked in a gruff voice.

"Indeed I do, General." The newcomer bowed slightly, his wrinkled hand folded low across his midriff. "Excellent news if I do say so. We've been graced by the gods this day."

"I doubt the gods had much to do with it." MacIntosh growled under his breath. The robed man smiled.

"You said you bring news." MacKentick prompted, gesturing to his brethren to calm himself, "Speak it."

The hooded head bowed. "My first piece of information is confirming that the McFarwin clan is indeed supporting us in our campaign." He stated, "It took longer than expected, but my children were able to persuade him to support our endeavor with the amenities of his clan."

MacKentick nodded, "This is good." He said. "With our brethren at our side, Macindaw will fall all the more quickly." The MacFarwin's clan, although smaller in number than most of the other clans, were skilled in areas many Scotti rarely chose to pursue. Most notably was their selection of archers. The MacFarwin clan was notorious among the lands of Picta for their skill with the shortbow.

"Indeed," The robed man nodded, "Their assets will come in most handy for what I have planned." At those words MacIntosh frowned.

"A plan you still have yet to fully divulge to me or my brother." He pointed out.

"All in due time." The robed man assured, "My second bit of intel is more… applicable, to you yourself, Lieutenant. My children have informed me that a caravan is to depart from Macindaw at first light. I want you to attack it." He said to the second in command.

"Why me?" MacIntosh's brows furrowed, "And why must we continue to attack such weak adversaries? Nearly a week has passed since your Godsfire destroyed our ships, and yet it seems we are no closer to taking the garrison."

"All in due time, Lieutenant." The robed man assured, spreading his wrinkled hands, "As for why I suggested you yourself attend this battle, my reasoning is simple. You are more skilled at general destruction than me and my children, Lieutenant." He explained. "It can be used to test the skills of of our new allies, at the very least, while lowering the number of opposing forces."

"Where, exactly will we be setting this ambush?" MacKentick asked, "If it's too far from here it may be more beneficial to simply wait until their return trip. My men are already weary from the raid of that eastern fief, and from the length we travelled to secure this site. Fighting with exhausted men has proven to be unproductive, and we don't have many men to spare if we plan to siege Macindaw in a few day's time."

"I can assure you it is not far, General. Leave such minor details to me and my children. Additionally," He added, upon noting the unconvinced expression of the Lieutenant, "If we are successful, we will be able to eliminate a thorn in the side of this operation. A large thorn better known as an Araluen Ranger."

The General and his second in command shared a look, it was a look of hatred at the mention of the green caped men, but also one of consideration as they weighed their odds. Finally, after a long moment of silence, MacKentick nodded.

"Gather the men."

* * *

 _ **Fin. Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Shoutout to StarHunter11 and kellyhorse: THANK YOU for favoriting and following! Hope you continue to enjoy the story.**_

 ** _Final things (in order of order):_**

 ** _To alex (from Chapters 2 and 10): You were on chapter 2 at 1:30am? Wow! Well, I'm glad it was good enough to keep you awake and reading at such an early hour :) I hope you've continued to enjoy the story and will keep reading (even if something might happen to Gilan, dun Dun DUNN! ;) who knows. I agree that Gilan should be granted his own series, and yet, at the same time I'm glad he doesn't have one because then stories such as this would be harder to create (and make logically fit into the timeline of RA). I love that you caught that little nod to the book series! You're the first one to point it out and I was silently cheering and giving you a high five. Thank you for your two reviews! See you next week! :D_**

 ** _Next, to Guest (Chapter 17): No need to apologize. Constructive criticism is always welcome :) It's not like you're pointing out major plot holes- although, if you find any please don't hesitate to tell me- and I do want to make sure that I'm not misrepresenting John Flanagan's original series. Also, the fact that you were able to spot the mistake only makes me happy to know that I have such an invested reader who not only see's the misspelling but also TELLS me that I messed up. Like Brom, the chapters initial posting is still a slight work in progress, I find myself rereading every one and each time there's always something I can fix. Thanks again for the review!_**

 ** _To Ranger River: Glad you still enjoy reading it. Gilan is indeed safe for this chapter at least. I'll look out for him in the next one as well, although, whether or not I'll be able to stop Damara's devious plan is a different matter. Fingers crossed for our lovable hero! Thanks for the review! ;D_**

 ** _To ByTheOldOak: Last tension building chapter. I promise! I tried to get an action scene in there but it just didn't seem to fit. I decided to keep it for next week's post. So get ready! Arrows will fly, swords shall cross, and blood definitely WILL be spilt- but by whom is what we must wait to see ;) And yes, an interesting dynamic with the explosives. I wonder how they'll come into play when the siege begins..._**

 ** _Lastly, to kellyhorse: Hahahaha, I laughed out loud when I read the first two words of your review. I can relate to that feeling of binge reading only to be devastated at an unfulfilling post. Sorry about that, btw... I was so happy to hear that this story is binge-worthy, though! Awesome! Thank you for that :) Just make sure your don't read and drive, I hear that could be just the slightest bit distracting ;P Anyway, thank you for the review. I plan to return to my regular scheduled posts on Thursday, no more random, time-consuming complications for a while. Thanks for reading!_**

 ** _As always, I encourage you to review, comment, critique, criticize, rant and rave in the little comment box down below. (See it? It's right down there vvv)_**

 ** _I look forwards to writing this next chapter, see you on Thursday!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	19. Shot Through the Heart

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **OVER 3000 VIEWS! :D I'm ecstatic!**_

 _ **No shoutouts today. Just a good 'ole story to continue reading.**_

 _ **Please enjoy the next chapter of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

Damara only relaxed once she'd successfully re-entered the garrison. Her midnight venture had gone exactly as planned; that is to say, it had been uneventful. After surveying the patrols on the parapet for the better part of three hours, she'd made her move. Using a weighted length of rope, Damara had lowered herself from the top of the wall, using the merlon as an anchor. From there, it was easy to self-belay down the rugged stone structure.

She had run out of rope roughly eight feet from the ground, tsk-ing as she was forced to drop the last few feet. The weighted end of the tool followed her down, pulling the remaining cord to the ground. Damara looped the rope over her shoulder and began crossing the expanse of snow.

Matching her movements with the darkness and the shadows, the girl reached the forest's' edge without being seen by the guards on the towers or patrolling the parapet. Now within the safety of the trees, Damara dropped the rope into the snow. It would only weigh her down, and she wouldn't be needing it for her return trip anyway; as Macindaw's rough stone walls would provide plenty of hand and foot holds for her to scale the structure.

Her hand lingered by the hilt of her blades as she'd trudged deeper into the forest, discarding the caution of moving silently. This time, Damara _wanted_ to be found. Just not by stray wolves or bears.

In truth, the woods were an uncomfortable place for the girl. Damara hated the absolute silence that embodied the evening trees. At least during the day there were birds and other critters to provide background noise. Once night fell, the forest became eerily silent. Damara would take the bustle of a city street over the unnerving stillness of the woods any day. She was confident in her ability to vanish into a market crowd, disappearing among inanimate trees, however, was a tad trickier.

There was a rustling and Damara turned to see a robed figure materialize from the woodland. He stood there, unmoving, a blue stone clasp gleaming on his left shoulder. Damara had nodded a greeting, pulling out her necklace and flashing the azure gem at the Observer.

The hooded head dipped and Damara replaced the pendant. "I have a message for Papi." She'd said, before continuing to explain the situation.

Once the meeting was over, Damara returned to the forests' edge, observing the parapet in the distance. She couldn't see the individual guards, however, the flickering of torchlight was just at informative, the flame disappearing for a half-second as a sentry crossed in front of the light source.

It had been a simple matter to reach the wall, scale it's stone face, and quickly descend from the ramparts and back into the tangle of makeshift tents and buildings that lined the main courtyard. Only at that point did Damara breath a sigh of relief.

 _One task down_ , she reminded herself, _two to go._

After a quick stop at her tent to remove her leathers and ensure the scabbards of her blades were well covered by her skirt, Damara made her way across the courtyard. Although she instinctively stuck to the more shadowed areas, Damara made no attempt to conceal her passage, instead opting to stride purposefully towards the central keep tower. She had learned that it was easier to go unnoticed if you simply moved as if you were entitled to do something or be somewhere. People tended to ask less questions when one exuded confidence and motive, as Damara did now.

True to her training, she passed the initial guards without them so much as a side glance from the weary soldiers. Damara ascended the stone steps with nary a sound, her soft leather boots silencing the footfalls. The girl barely glanced down the second floor hallway as she continued up the last flight of stairs.

Upon reaching the third landing, she came across a second set of guards posted outside of Lord Orman's bedchamber. They were both heavily armored, both holding a spear in whichever hand framed the doorway, and both sported the standard issue long sword which hung on their belts.

The one on the right narrowed his eyes as Damara neared the top step. "State your business." He said, a hand moving to rest on the hilt of his sword.

"I'm Stacy Mickelson," Damara lied fluidly, choosing the name of one of the refugees. "Here with urgent news for Lord Orman from the Chief Healer."

"The Lord is resting. Your news can wait until daybreak."

Damara resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead saying, "I must insist on seeing him immediately. This is critical information."

"Permission denied," The guard on the right replied stoically. "Whatever information you have can be left with us and we shall relay it once the Lord has woken."

Damara shook her head. "I was instructed that this news be for Lord Orman alone to hear." At the guards lack of response she sighed in frustration. "Fine," She held up her hands in surrender, turning towards the staircase. "I'll be all to grateful to return to my cot. _You_ can be the ones to explain to the Captain of the Guard why the caravan's departure will be delayed, come tomorrow."

She made it down three steps before the guard called her back.

"My apologies, ma'am. I was just confused was all," he said. "Please wait here a moment." The guard disappeared into the bedchamber and Damara could hear the muted tones and faint sounds of shuffling as Lord Orman was woken. The girl frowned ever so slightly. She would have to be careful with her movements, the door wasn't as thick as she'd imagined.

The guard returned a minute later. "You may enter," he announced.

Damara nodded curtly to the guard as she stepped across the threshold, hearing the door click shut behind her. The bedchamber was cast in orange lamplight, and she was surprised to find it so… orderly. A simple bed with rumpled covers stood in the far corner, a solid desk and chair rested in the center of the room, and a bookcase had been set on the right wall, opposite a tall, narrow, rectangular window overlooking the courtyard.

Lord Orman was currently seated at the desk, having donned his dress robe. He looked up as she entered, slightly bleary-eyed from the unexpected return to consciousness.

"My Lord." Damara bowed, sweeping a hand across her midriff and unclipping the small leather pouch.

"Stand up, girl. Stand up." Lord Orman said tiredly. "I am told you bring urgent news from Malcolm?"

"Indeed, m'Lord." Damara stepped up to the desk. "He wished for you to examine this." She produced the small pouch, holding it out for observation.

"What is it?" Lord Orman inquired, stifling a yawn as his hand slowly moved to take it.

"Well, sir, he said it was something-" Damara made her move. It was an old tip she'd learned during her sessions training with Papi. _Attack in the middle of a sentence_ , he'd instructed, __your opponent will expect you to finish speaking, so strike before completing a thought to catch them unaware.__

Damara's open hand reached across the table, quickly striking Lord Orman in the throat. The man gagged, eyes widening in confusion and fear. Damara hadn't stopped to admire the expression, shoving the bag of herbs over his nostrils and mouth. Lord Orman's body relaxed in the chair, slumping down as the paralyzing effect of the drug mixture took hold.

Wasting no time, Damara removed her pendant, slowly twisting it so the firelight reflected off of it's surface. Lord Orman's gaze was instinctively drawn to the gleam and that's when she began gently swinging the chain like a pendulum. Back and forth in a rhythmic motion. Then Damara began to speak in a flat, droning tone.

"Focus on the gem. As you focus on it your eyelids will become so heady that every time you blink it gets harder to reopen them. In fact, even now they are so weighted it's nearly impossible to open them. The next time they blink they will be three times as heavy as I count from five down to one. They will be so heavy they will actually be stuck shut. The muscles in your face will melt, ready? Five…. four, relaxing more…. Three…. Two….and one…." Damara snapped her fingers and watched as Lord Orman's eyes closed.

Damara kept talking, stowing the necklace. "They are now loose and limp and in fact, the more you try to open them, the more stuck shut they become. Now, when I touch your right arm you will begin to forget the last ten minutes, you will start to lose the memory of what transpired and you will begin to think it was a dream. And in this dream you will come to the realization that a Ranger must accompany the caravan as an added precaution, and upon that realization you shall wake. You will have come to such a realization of your own will, and you will forget the events that took place this night. Ready? I'm going to touch your arm in five… four… three… two…" Her voice was barely a whisper as she tapped Lord Orman's forearm.

She observed his sleeping form for half a minute, ensuring that the trance had taken hold before exiting the room quietly. With barely a nod to the guards, she stole down the steps, forcing herself to walk slowly, unhurriedly, towards the exit.

Damara stepped out into the brisk night, shivering slightly as she made her way back to the section of the courtyard where the refugee tents and caravan carts had been set aside. _Two down_ , she reminded herself, _one to go_.

* * *

They had been traveling for the better half of a day when the caravan finally stopped for the midday meal. Although Wulver would hardly classify the strip of hard jerky and the baked cracker-like bread a meal. He ate it moodily, scanning his gaze across the convoy. Most of the refugees had been forced to walk alongside the two carts, the better portion of which spanned roughly an eighth of a mile past the second wagon. Wulver had positioned himself close to the front of the caravan, as Damara had suggested.

Two guardsmen were positioned every six paces along the outer edges of the train, at what Wulver assumed was the standard interval for a forced march pace. Despite their training, the men-at-arms had sighed in relief at the command to rest, glad to take a break from walking. The refugees weren't faring any better. Unused to the strict stride, they had gratefully sunk to the ground the moment the order to relax had been relayed.

The only ones who did not appear to be tired were the two riders at the front of the caravan. The captain of the guard and the ranger who were both seated astride their respective horses, surveying the column silently. The captain spoke softly to the ranger who shook his head in response, looking displeased at their progress.

Wulver had been shocked to see the cloaked man as part of the envoy at all secretly marveling at the success the Cloak initiate had achieved. Now it would be up to him to ensure the mark was silenced.

"Water?"

 _Speak of the devil_ , Wulver thought, looking up into the cobalt eyes of his constituent.

Damara frowned at his hesitation. "Do you want water or not." She said bluntly, shaking the canteen in front of his nose to draw his attention. With a scowl Wulver took the pouch, drinking a long swig of the leathery tasting liquid before handing it back.

"How much longer?" He asked quietly.

"Not long." The Thread replied vaguely. "Be ready."

Wulver nodded, watching as she stoppered the canteen before weaving her way back through the crowds of refugees until she was near the second cart. He saw her lean in to whisper to a bandaged boy sitting in the crowded cart- the Expendable, Wulver realized. What was his name again? Fergul? It didn't matter, Wulver reminded himself as he looked back at the white cloaked figure. He needed to focus on his task.

The captain of the guard called something to the nearby platoon leader who, in turn, began shouting for everyone to get up and prepare to move on. Stretching his arms, Wulver complied, the other refugees grunting and groaning as they stood on weary legs to continue the westward journey.

For the next fifteen minutes, everything proceeded as normal. Then, as they were passing through a narrow section of the trail where the trees on the north and south side pressed in, an audible _SNAP_ cracked through the air. The caravan's progression ceased, all attention drawn to the second cart that was now listed sideways. The oxen pulling the wagon shuffled awkwardly in the snow. Wulver saw the ranger frown.

"What's going on?" The captain of the guard called back, nudging his horse towards the disturbance.

The Ox driver, who had jumped down to inspect his wagon, looked up as the approach. "It's the back axle, sir." He explained, "It's snapped."

"How could it have snapped?" The captain inquired, dismounting to get a better look. As he did, one of the guards on the northern side of the column cried out briefly before slumping to the ground.

The captain's attention snapped to his fallen comrade. "What in the-"

"Sir! Movement to the north! They've got-" his words were cut short with a grunt, the guard's eyes looking down at the red shafted arrow protruding from his upper chest with shock. Then his eyes dimmed and he crumpled to the ground. Dead.

Then pandemonium erupted. The refugees, rightfully terrified, began screaming, scurrying for some form of cover as the red arrows rained down on the defenseless convoy. Wulver dove for the cover provided by the first wagon, hearing more bodies slump to the floor. He had recognized the arrow, the red shafts were symbolic of the MacFarwin clan.

 _But how…_ Wulver shook his head, unsheathing the hidden blade from his boot. This was no time to wonder at the alliance of the clans. He had a job to do.

The ranger shouted above the din of battle, ordering a platoon to lead the refugees to the safety of the southern treeline. He had drawn his bow and dismounted, shooting steadily in the direction of the ambushers even as he issued his commands. As the next volley of arrows hissed into the air, the ranger ducked into the cover of the first cart.

No more than five feet away from the apprentice Blade.

Then the captain came to ground, crouching next to the ranger, "Sir, Charlie Squadron is assisting the refugees."

"Good." The ranger nodded, "Send Alpha and Bravo to confront the archers. I'll cover you as best I can from here."

"Yes'sir." The captain stood to execute the command when a terrible cry from the southern woodline arose. Wulver watched, amazed, as the refugees fled back towards the carts, the armored soldiers fiercely attempting to drive back the dozen Scotti warriors that were now charging from the trees. It was a brilliant pincer ambush, with ranged opponents on one side, and melee combatants striking from the rear.

The Ranger cursed vehemently, amending his earlier command. "Captain, take Bravo and go aid Charlie Squadron. Alpha and I will take care of the archers."  
"Understood, sir." Brandishing his sword, the captain stood, yelling. "Bravo Squad on me!" Wulver wasted a moment watching the man charge into the fray with his comrades at his heels.

The ranger stood from his concealment, sending three arrows speeding towards the northern force in the span of five seconds. "Alpha Squad, advance on the archers!" He shouted, losing another volley of three shots towards the north forest. The red-shafted arrows that peppered the snow around them had ceased their barrage.

The message was clear. It was time for Wulver to act.

The Blade initiate moved quickly besides the ranger, whose focus was on the hidden enemies to the north and not the panicked refugees around him. As the ranger reached for his quiver, Wulver plunged the blade of his dagger into the target's midriff, feeling the steel cut through the soft fabric of the cloak and sink into the man's flesh.

The ranger grunted in surprise, glancing over his shoulder with widened eyes. He attempted to speak but all that emerged from his mouth was a gurgled sound and a dribble of blood.

Wulver smiled wolfishly as he retracted the weapon, watching the ranger sink to the snow that was quickly turning a bright shade of red. The apprentice Blade watched in satisfaction as his mark bled out. One word traipsed through his head over and over.

Success.

* * *

 _ **Fin! MUAHAHAHA! How's THAT for an evil cliffhanger?**_

 _ **...Please don't kill me *_***_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **First, to ByTheOldOak: I hope you have a longer chair ;P Glad you enjoyed the buildup of the last chapter. This one provided a small resolution, but there will be much MUCH more in store for our main heroes.**_

 _ **Secondly, if anyone is interested, I began a short little Percy Jackson/Kane Chronicle crossover story called 'When Worlds Collide'. It's only 2 chapters long so far, and I only wrote it to get out of a writers block for this fanfic, but I'm considering continuing it. I encourage you to check it out if you are a fan of PJO/TKC.**_

 _ **Lastly, as per usual, please review, comment, critique, rant, rave, or otherwise drop me a word in the comment box below.**_

 _ **Have a great day!**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

 _ **p.s. I was rushing a little bit to get this out in time so I will most likely be going back and editing the second half later in the week; just to add some better descriptions and whatnot. I just REALLY wanted to get something posted for you guys :) See you next Thursday!**_


	20. Walking the Fine Line

_***peeks over the edge of the couch, glances at the clock, see's it's not midnight and still technically Sunday***_

 _ ***whispers* Hello readers.**_

 _ **Enjoy the next installment of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

 _ ***quickly posts chapter and hides behind the couch again***_

* * *

Berrigan really _was_ getting too old for this. Their caravan had been travelling at the army's forced march pace, having made good progress. Berrigan, Brom, and Sir Wallace rode point, with the company of knights following behind on foot. The sun was just cresting the peak of its ascension as the group neared the hill indicating the halfway point; where they planned to stop for the midday meal. He shifted in the saddle for the umpteenth time in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his aching back, flexing his cramped hands on the reins. His horse snorted in mild annoyance, glancing back at the rider with light caramel eyes as if to say, _sit still, we're halfway there_.

"I know, Gizmo, I know." Berrigan mumbled, leaning forwards to pat the horse's neck. Similar to berrigan, Gizmo was a retired ranger horse, too old to continue serving the corp effectively. After about fifteen years in the service of their ranger a ranger horse would be cycled into the ranger horse breeding program and taught that riders no longer need a password to ride them. Gizmo had been Berrigan's first ranger horse, and after the incident with the Skandians, Berrigan's only request was that he be allowed to keep his trusted mount and friend. Crowley had readily agreed, well aware of the bonds that formed between horse and rider.

Gizmo whinnied softly, _you're getting old_ , before turning back to face the front. Berrigan laughed quietly, "You're just as aged as me, old boy." Unfortunately, Brom heard him.

The young minstrel smiled, shifting Bartholemule over the draw level with his former teacher. "I've got good news and bad news about your age." He started. "The good news is that you look like you should be respected; the bad news is you're not."

Berrigan raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, allow me to inform you that your lack of experience is matched by your surplus of ego."

Brom's smile only grew, "It must be heavy to carry around that generation gap."

"You remind me of when I was young and clueless."

"I'm surprised you can remember that far back. It may seem like yesterday for you, but it was decades ago."

"I wish I were as clever as you think you are."

"You'd be lucky to be half as witty as I know I am."

"Brains aren't everything, Brom. In your case, they're nothing."

Brom roared with laughter, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Bested again by the great Berrigan. How come I can never get the last word in when it comes to you?"

"Because you keep trying." Berrigan replied. With a start, the old ranger realized that they were now at the top of the hill, Brom's banter having distracted the older man for the last leg.

Berrigan smiled at his former student who simply shrugged.

"What's going on down there?" Sir Wallace wondered, a frown creasing his features as he pointed towards the valley.

Berrigan turned his attention in the direction indicated. Down in the saddle below, they could see a long train of people accented by two carts evenly spaced within the column. There were armored men on the outer edges of the caravan. Berrigan looked at Brom who was just as perplexed. The coat of arms on the lead rider indicated that the men were from Macindaw, although what the blazes they were doing so far from the stronghold was anyone's guess. At the front of the caravan was another small pack pony with no rider- wait! Berrigan narrowed his aging eyes, barely able to discern the patterned cloak as it's wearer turned to call back to the second cart which had inexplicably stopped in its advancement. _Not a pack pony, a ranger horse!_ He realized.

"You don't think they were attacked, do you?" Brom frowned, a hint of worry entering his words, having spotted the ranger as well.

"Not likely," Berrigan assured. "Macindaw doesn't house enough civilians to form such a long train."

"Then what-"

"Let's go down and ask." Sir Wallace decided, spurring his horse forwards at a light trot.

That's when everything went wrong.

One of the men at arms shouted, the call cutting off abruptly. Then someone screamed and the civilians began running haphazardly, some crying out and falling. Those that fell didn't get back up.

"Look!" Brom pointed to the northern wood line as another volley of arrows blotted out a small section of the sky. The danger sent most of the civilians rushing for the cover of the southern forest.

Berrigan reached behind him, grabbing the longbow attached to his saddle. "Captain, are your men prepared for battle."

Sir Wallace nodded, "That they are, sir. We'll attack from the northwest flank-"

"Hold, Captain." Berrigan instructed, watching the battle unfold long enough for another grouping of arrows to fall among the carts. He frowned. "Send one squadron to the northwest flank and the rest of the platoon to the southern theater."

"The southern theater, sir? But why-"

"Those are your orders, Captain." Berrigan snapped. "See to it."

Sir Wallace spared the old ranger a frown of annoyance before calling his men into action. As the knights made their way down the hill, Brom, who had pulled out his handheld crossbow, looked at his former teacher.

"You think they're being flanked." He said with more certainty than query. His former student had gotten uncharacteristically serious at the sight of the battle below.

"It's what I would do." Berrigan finished stringing the longbow, nodding grimly. "The archers aren't firing at the more vulnerable targets. They're just trying to scare them, forcing them to run to the south woodline. I'm going to regroup with the ranger, you-" Berrigan was cut off by a war cry that arose from the southern forest. The older ranger swore. "Help the southern flank." He instructed.

Brom nodded, spurring Bartholemule towards the sounds of battle.

"And get yourself a _real_ weapon!" Berrigan called after him. That done, Berrigan prodded Gizmo into a sprint, feeling the old ranger horse's sinew buzz with excitement as he stretched his legs into a gallop. Berrigan directed his trusted mount with only his knees, drawing an arrow from the saddle quiver, nocking, and firing towards the southern enemy front as they emerged from the treeline. The target he'd been aiming for fell, clutching his abdomen. Berrigan frowned at the poor accuracy, his hands moving much too slowly through the practiced sequence of draw, release, reload.

 _I'm really getting too old for this_.

* * *

 _"And get yourself a real weapon!"_

 _A_ real _weapon, huh?_ Brom grimaced at the thought, taking aim with his crossbow and firing into the mass of Scotti that had emerged from the southern flank. He considered reloading but realized his former mentor was correct, his little pot sticker wouldn't be very effective against this opponent. The minstrel dismounted, clipping the crossbow to the saddle. There was a fallen Macindaw soldier to his right, three red shafted arrows protruding through his neck, chest, and right leg. Discarded at his side was a standard longsword with a plain pommel.

"I'll be borrowing this." He muttered to the unresponsive knight. "Stay here." Brom instructed his mount, the mule staring at him with bored eyes, as if oblivious to the chaos around them.

Brom then ran towards the fighting, seeing the Araluen guard supporting Macindaw's knights and some of the civilians who had taken up arms against the northern men. The bard quickly joined the fray, the blade jumping to life in his grasp. Brom felt himself slide back into the familiar rhythm of battle, deflecting and dancing out of the way of the Scotti's weapons before striking in with his own. The ghost of a memory arose from the depths of his mind, the enemy before him no longer wearing the indicative facepaint, the knights around him no longer sporting the colors of Araluen and Macindaw.

Instead he was alongside his fellow Celtic Garde. His brothers in arms, his comrades, his friends. Side by side, fighting in their trademark groups of three, he and his brethren drove back the hordes of Wargals attempting to swarm King Swyddned's court. On his left was Rafael, darting forwards and felling the monstrosity before him with a single stroke. On his right, Alforic dodged a clawed attack. Brom parried a blow and his blade flashed in retaliation, slicing the forearm of the Wargal.

Only now he wasn't facing Wargals, and now he fought alongside strangers.

Engaging with a Scotti dirk wielder, Brom found himself on the defensive under his enemy's flurry of blows. A cold hand gripped his heart, a sinister voice whispering in his head, reminding him that he was no longer a member of the Garde, that he was no longer a swordsman. That he would die here in a foreign land. Be buried underneath foreign soil. The uncertainty, coupled with his rusty sword skills, ensured that it wasn't long until the minstrel slipped up. It was a small opening, but one that was pressed by his opponent. The Scotti drew back to thrust towards Brom's exposed midriff only to cry out. His painted eyes widened before the Scotti slumped to the floor, dead.

"You okay?"

Brom glanced to his right to see one of Macindaw's soldiers withdrawing his sword, it's edge red with blood. Without waiting for a response, the knight turned, stepping towards another of the enemy warriors.

"Keep it together, Ebrommius." He muttered. The bard took a shaky breath, keenly aware of how close he'd come to joining his father. "You can't die yet. You can't die here." The next breath was more controlled, more confident. It was time to rejoin the fight. With the reinforcements from Araluen, combined with the platoon from Macindaw, it didn't take long until the tide began to turn.

At a call from their commander, the Scotti force broke, retreating to the southern woodline. Brom and his fellow fighters made to pursue them, but a call from Sir Wallace halted their advancement. "Leave them. Tend to the wounded." The Captain commanded. Brom's eyes lingered on the red tip of his sword for a few seconds. Then he dropped the weapon as if it had burned his hand, seeing it hit the snow covered ground as he turned.

The aftermath of battle was never a pretty thing. It was a sight Brom never wanted to experience again, and yet, he now walked among wounded knights and weary soldiers. The minstrel stumbled his way over to his former mentor, eyes widening as he saw the old bard bent over the ranger, applying pressure to the stomach wound with the dappled cloak.

"Is he…" Brom swallowed hard, refused to finish the question.

"He's alive. But not for long." Berrigan said calmly. "We need to get him and the others to a medical facility."

"You're thinking Macindaw?" Brom realized.

Berrigan nodded. "I'm thinking Macindaw."

* * *

"Open the gates! Open the gates!"

Gilan looked up from the stables at the shout, frowning at Blaize. "What the devil is going on out there?" His mare snorted. _Why don't you go find out?_ Gilan set aside the grooming brush and made his way towards the commotion.

The sight that greeted him wasn't pleasant. "What-" he breathed, the young rangers gaze traveling over the wounded as they trudged back into the stronghold. This was no victory parade. Heads hung low, people sobbed, stretchers were brought out for the wounded who were carried off towards the medical bay. It looked as if the caravan had trudged through a warzone.

The young ranger felt his heart skip a beat as he spotted a shaggy haired man being carried away by the medical staff. _Brom?_ But that was impossible. Brom had left for Norgate. Gilan looked back across the sea of carnage, his confusion only mounting as he spotted a similar head of unkempt brown hair on a man riding a mount that closely resembled Bartholemule.

Then Gilan's gaze alighted on a dappled white and grey cloak, stained red from where it was pressed against the opening of a wound. "Meralon?" The younger ranger rushed over as his older peer was loaded on a stretcher, walking alongside his comrade as they ushered him to the healers. Meralon's face was pale, much too pale. A thin sheen of sweat coating his skin, eyes flitting beneath their lids as he drew in weak, ragged breaths. Dimly, the younger ranger heard one of the medics come up.

"This one needs immediate attention!" The healer shouted, before moving to another wounded soldier.

"How…" Gilan looked around in a daze. "How could this happen?"

"An ambush." A grim voice informed him.

Gilan spun around to face an older man, clad in the clothes of a jongleur with a familiar green and grey pattern. His eyes snared on the wooden peg leg, "Berrigan? What are you doing here? What happened?"

The retired ranger sighed, "It's a story best told to yourself and Lord Orman. We were heading there now." It was only then that Gilan noticed the armor clad man besides Berrigan. His shield was emblazoned with Araluen's coat of arms and the part of Gilan not in shock recognized that he must be part of the Royal Guard.

"But Meralon-"

Berrigan placed a hand on the younger mans shoulder. "Your concern for your comrade is noted, but he is in the healers capable hands. There is nothing you can do for him, so instead focus on what we _can_ accomplish." He said not unkindly.

"Of course. Of course, you're right." Gilan took a breath, regaining control as he realized the retired ranger was correct. Worrying about his fellow ranger wouldn't do anything. What he needed to do right now was figure out what had occurred, and decide on what to do next. Berrigan nodded in assurance, only releasing the younger man's shoulder when he was satisfied that Gilan had overcome his unease.

"Good. Now, gentlemen." Berrigan nodded to each in turn. "Let's go see what we can do to fix this mess."

* * *

Brom spent the night in the medbay.

He didn't know how, he didn't know why, and- most importantly- he didn't care. All he knew, was that he'd finally found him. Brom had seen him after the skirmish, watched as he was loaded onto the cart, blood seeping from a head wound. On their return to the garrison, the minstrel had observed from afar as he was taken into the medbay to be treated along with dozens of other casualties. And now Brom was seated besides him. After all those years the bard had finally found him.

He'd arrived at the bridge, sooner than he'd expected, but Brom was determined to cross it as soon as the man awoke. If only he knew what to say. Looking between the man on the bed and the one who sat besides it, a stranger would swear that they were drunk and seeing double. There was no other way to describe the sight of two nearly identical people being less than an arm's length apart from one another.

At some point, Brom must've nodded off, a soft groan rousing him from the depths of his slumber. The minstrel looked over to see his doppleganger raise a hand to his bandaged forehead. Looking around blearily, the man on the cot's eyes finally registered his bedside guest. The green gaze lingered on Brom's face, blinking a few times in disbelief.

"Ebrommius?" He asked in a scratchy voice.

"Brother." The one word felt strange coming from the minstrels mouth. Forced, almost.

The man groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I was really hit hard if I'm hallucinating about _you_."

Brom restrained a sigh. "How are you feeling?"

"Alive." The man admitted. "Although my head feels like it was kicked by that stubborn old mule of yours."

"As if Bartholemule would waste his time trying to knock sense into the likes of you." Brom smiled, ever so slightly. The man snorted. A silence stretched between them, the bard knowing what he had to ask but not wanting to ask it. After an awkward moment, Brom gave in to the inevitable. "Why did you run?"

"You know why."

"Why?" Brom pressed. "I need to know, Alforic. You owe me that much."

The man was silent for a time. His gaze conflicting as emotions flitted across his face too fast to identify. "They would've killed me, brother!" Alforic turned to his brother, eyes wide with past fear. "For what I- what I did. For my crime." At the last word his voice broke in a sob, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

Brom waited, neither offering comfort or affirmation. Instead he simply asked, "Why did you do it?"

"Don't ask that." Alforic's tone was pleading.

"Why, brother."

Alforic rubbed a hand down his face. "Because I was stupid, alright." He hissed. "We'd taken to the drink and you know how we get when… He had said something, I think about dad, I got angry, we had a brawl." Alforic's hesitated, looking down at his hand. "I- I didn't mean to hit him so hard. But he fell and… and he didn't get back up. He just didn't get up." He laughed, the sound was halting and cold. "Ironic that he'd survived the war only to die in the celebration."

At the end of his confession, the energy seemed to evaporate from his body and Alforic slumped down. Brom's hands clenched and unclenched, his face having glazed over in a mask of expressionlessness. Finally, the bard looked upon his brother, his twin, and nodded.

"I understand." He pulled out a notebook, opening to the creased page and producing the sealed letter that had been stowed there. "He left this for you. As part of his will."

Alforic made no move to take the envelope, instead gazing at Brom with wide eyes. "How…" He whispered. "How do you not hate me? You should be furious with me. I- Because of me you were-"

"Make no mistake, brother. I have not forgiven your actions. But I cannot change what has passed, I can only look to the future, and try to make it better."

Alforic scoffed. "Quoting mother now?" A thought struck the man and he looked up fearfully. "Is she-"

"Alive and well." Brom assured. "If not heartbroken."

"Yeah, well." Alforic sighed, pressing a hand to his head. "I still think I'm hallucinating."

"If I agreed with you we'd both be wrong." Brom chuckled faintly before standing with a sigh. "Get some rest, brother." He said softly, resting a hand on his twins shoulder before leaving the medbay. "We'll talk more in the morning."

* * *

 ** _Fin, thanks for reading! Special thanks for all of your patience._**

 ** _A little insight into our OC, Brom in this chapter. What did y'all think?_**

 ** _Final things:_**

 ** _First, to ByTheOldOak: Ouch, sorry- bad gravity! Don;t make my readers fall out of their chairs. Hope this chapter satisfies the fear/curiosity as to what happens next. Thanks for the review, and thank you for your patience :)_**

 ** _Next, to Ranger River: He's not out of the woods just yet, but maybe you'll breath a bit easier knowing that Gilan is safe- for now. MUAHAHA... ;) Thanks for the review, and thanks for your support with the PJO/TKC crossover :D_**

 ** _NOTICE TO ALL READERS:_**

 ** _I will be out of the country for a few weeks starting Wednesday. Due to the high prices of international data plans, I will not be posting until after I return to the states. Upon my return, I shall post an authors note detailing my plans for future posts. Until then I encourage you all to read books, comics, other fanfiction stories, etc._**

 ** _Oh- and review. Please. I always value criticism, critiques, praise, rants, comments, suggestions and whatnot. Still can't read minds, sadly..._**

 ** _Until next chapter!_**

 ** _-Ardoa88_**


	21. If at First You Don't Succeed

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **Wow, it's been- what- three or four weeks since my last official post?**_

 _ **I won't starve you guys any longer.**_

 _ **Only one Shoutout today. Thank you kelleyhorse for holding my feet to the fire, you motivated me to get the ball rolling and it is thanks to you that I broke through a solid writers block that had me stumped for the longest time. On behalf of myself and anyone reading this: Thank you.**_

 _ **Please enjoy the (much too) long awaited Chapter 21 of Rangers Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

Lord Orman had been having a good day. After the midday meal, he and Malcolm had engaged themselves in the task of detailing the capabilities of the black powder when there were shouts from the courtyard. The two scholars paused, looking up from their debate over which component caused the severe reaction upon the substance's contact with a flame.

"What the devil is going on out there?" Malcolm frowned, walking over to the narrow window in the study.

Orman moved to stand besides his fellow scholar, brow furrowing as he saw the hurried movements below. Even from their vantage, the two men could discern that something was very wrong.

Malcolm's gaze lingered on the wounded soldiers and civilians being carried through the gate. "My Lord, I should-"

"Go." Orman said, his gaze affixed on the scene below as the healer swept out of the room as fast as his old legs could carry him. Running a hand down his face, the young lord took a deep breath. "Xander!"

The skinny steward popped into the room at the summons, bowing slightly. "My lord?"

"Go fetch the rangers and the garrison commander. Bring them here as soon as they are able."

"Of course, my lord." Xander nodded, removing himself from the study and calling to a nearby guard.

Orman released a breath, pacing back and forth in the small space. His impatience to know what was going on only grew as the minutes stretched for what felt like hours. His mind began conjuring thousands of possibilities for the commotion below, each more absurd and illogical than the last. Lord Orman stopped abruptly in his movements. Making wild assumptions would help nothing, he realized, except to agitate his imagination. Better to sit and wait for the official report, then act.

Nodding to himself, the young lord moved to the seat behind the central desk, sinking into the straight-backed chair with a sigh. He was still unused to being in charge of the entire garrison. Back when his father, the late Lord Syron, was commander, everything ran as it should. Like a well oiled clock with each gear in the proper place. Syron was a strong leader, with faithful soldiers manning the battlements, and a knack for battle strategy. He was compassionate towards the servant in the castle, and would frequently spend his time observing the everyday affairs alongside the seneschal to ensure all was well.

That had all changed roughly a year and a half ago. At the time, Orman's traitorous cousin, Sir Keren, had attempted to overthrow Macindaw by poisoning both Orman and his late father, Syron. Keren's plan had nearly been successful. The charismatic knight had managed to replace the loyal soldiers within the garrison with his own hired mercenaries, planning to take the castle by force if the corocore poison failed. Syron had succumbed to the drug, with his son not faring much better. The newly appointed Lord Orman had fled the castle with Xander and the Ranger Will Treaty, hiding out in Grimsdell woods where the healer, Malcolm, had saved the young lord's life. After a bloody battle, Sir Keren had been defeated, his traitorous plan foiled, and Araluen saved from a Scotti invasion.

Since that time, Lord Orman had begun the daunting task of restaffing his garrison with loyal men at arms, restocking the food stores, and settling into the day-to-day routine of a castle lord. And now-

Lord Orman's thoughts cut off as the door to his study opened. Xander ushered in the four people outside, announcing them as they entered. "The Ranger Gilan, Sir Barnes of the Macindaw Garrison, Sir Wallace of the Araluen Royal Guard, and Ranger Berrigan."

Lord Orman recognized the first two men that walked across the threshold. The third was clad in a knight's armor, the crest of Araluen emblazoned on the polished metal breastplate. The last man was adorned in simple travelers clothes, he bore no significant features aside from an intelligent gaze and a wooden post in place of his left leg.

"Retired, actually." The cripple acknowledged with a tilt of his head.

"Where is Ranger Meralon?" Orman asked with a frown.

"The medical bay." Gilan answered, a quick flash of worry crossing his face. "He was badly wounded in the Scotti attack."

" _Scotti?_ What in the world are you-" Lord Orman cut himself off, forcing himself to ask in a more measured tone. "What happened?"

The scholar listened intently as the retired ranger and the Araluen knight recounted their tale. Ranger Gilan was hanging onto every word and in the recess of his thoughts Orman realized that this must be the first time the young man was hearing the story as well. Berrigan described as he had reached his fellow ranger, noticing the bloodstain and immediately performing field first aid. Sir Wallace picked up from there, highlighting how, with the combined force of the Royal Guardsmen and garrison soldiers, they were able to drive the Scotti back. As they concluded the retelling, Sir Barnes spoke up.

"Their story matches with what the Platoon Commander has briefed me on. He claimed that the back cart of their caravan broke an axle, causing them to stop and assess the damage. That was when the Scotti began their attack." The commander reported.

Lord Orman nodded, taking a deep breath and pressing a hand to his forehead. "Very well, gentlemen, let's try to make sense of this latest move."

"I believe this confirms my theory that the Scotti are not working alone." Gilan pointed out. "Flanking maneuvers, while not a particularly advanced battle tactic, are not among the repertoire of strategies used by the northerners. They prefer to just whack and bash their opponents until there's no one left to kill. Frontal charges, open warfare, decisive battles as opposed to complex ploys and drawn out confrontations. Sort of like the Skandians," Gilan smiled ruefully at the remembrance of his time spent with the eastern sea raiders, "only less effective."

Berrigan had frowned throughout the young ranger's deduction. "You're sure it's something so complex? Could it not be the simple act of cutting off a supply route? The Scotti may not dabble in subterfuge, but reducing an enemy's stock is a basic principle of war."

Gilan shook his head. "I'm positive. Every outcome that has occurred seems to have been carefully crafted. The attempted establishment of a base at the Chomla crossing, the raids along Macindaw's patrol grounds, their possession of the black powder, the attack on Marshwood Feif, our admittance of the refugees, and now, the thwarted plan to send them to the safety of Norgate." The young ranger had listed the events off on his fingers. He looked up at those assembled. "It's too premeditated to constitute as a mere coincidence."

Lord Orman nodded thoughtfully before his mind snared on an issue with the ranger's claim. "For the most part," Orman began, "I can agree with you. However, I fail to see how the Scotti would have known about my decision to send the refugees to Norgate."

"They could've set the trap as a precaution." Gilan answered, his brow furrowing as he reevaluated his assessment.

"That would be one heavy precaution." Sir Wallace mused. The armored knight tapped the hilt of the sword hanging at his side. "A squadron of archers and a battalion of warriors dispatched just for a potential move seems a bit much, even for the northern men."

"Point acknowledged." Gilan tipped his head. "Still, the other factors strongly suggest that someone is pulling the strings behind this campaign."

Lord Orman felt a thrill of fear as the image of Sir Keren flickered in the back of his mind. Gilan's sentiment was all too familiar of the subterfuge Orman's cousin had utilized during his attempted takeover. Then the young lord shook his head, _Keren's dead_. He reminded himself. _Killed in the siege of Macindaw. He can't be behind this_. Orman turned his focus back on the conversation that had continued while his mind had it's momentary panic.

"- possible they have an inside man?" Berrigan was asking, looking between his peer and the Garrison Commander.

Sir Barnes bristled slightly. "My men are loyal to the Lord and the kingdom of Araluen."

"I meant no disrespect," Berrigan said placatingly, "I only wish to address every scenario."

"No, you may be onto something, Berrigan." They all looked at the young Ranger, who was stroking his chin. "There may be a mole- not among your men, Captain." Gilan quickly reassured. "But among the refugees. I can't believe I didn't consider the prospect sooner."

Lord Orman was confused. "What exactly do you mean, Ranger Gilan?"

"The refugees," Gilan explained, "I thought they only served the purpose of giving Macindaw an ultimatum, but there may have been another reason why the Scotti let so many villagers escape. They may have been trying to sneak a spy in with the rest of the refugees. Think about it-" The young ranger began pacing in the small space. "None of the guardsmen from Marshwood were among the survivors. Not one. Surely, even in a sizable raid, a few of the men-at-arms would have survived the battle and retreated to Macindaw with the others. But none did. The refugees were all common folk; dirty, bloodstained, and battle worn, but none with fighting experience."

Lord Orman was catching on. "They didn't leave any fighters that could potentially aid us if it came to a war."

"Right." Gilan nodded. "And if it were the case that there is a spy amidst the refugees, your decision to send them to Norgate would present an issue to the Scotti. If their spy is to remain hidden, they would need to ensure that he acts accordingly with what is expected of a refugee so as not to raise suspicion on our part."

"Then the mole was in the caravan?" Sir Barnes frowned. "But why would the Scotti attack one of their own?"

"To ensure the safety of the ruse." The young ranger explained. "Their attack on the caravan may have been nothing more than another scare tactic. Kill the soldiers, the ones who could actually be of use in a battle, and motivate the civilians to flee back to the nearest point of refuge: Castle Macindaw, where their spy remains useful."

A thoughtful expression crossed the crippled man's features and he stroked his beard quietly. The knights were attempting to follow Gilan's line of thinking, although it was clear that the Araluen knight was having an easier time of it than Macindaw's garrison commander.

"Is there some way to know for sure that there is a spy among the villagers?" Lord Orman pressed. "I don't want to act on mere speculation alone."

Gilan thought for a long moment. He glanced at the garrison commander. "You said that an axle had broken on one of the carts?"

"Yes." Sir Barnes confirmed.

"Then it may be possible to confirm my theory." Gilan looked back at Lord Orman. "An acquaintance of mine checked the carts early the evening before the caravan's departure. If we can find evidence of tampering-"

"You can confirm that it was sabotaged." Berrigan finished, glancing at his younger peer with raised eyebrows. "Very good."

"So we need to flush out this mole." Sir Wallace concluded. "As soon as possible. Or else the Scotti will continue to be one step ahead of us."

Berrigan, who had stayed mostly quiet, spoke up. "That would be foolish. With the number of refugees from the caravan such a process could take days. We don't want to start a witch hunt that will only cause a panic and serve to alert the spy." The crippled man held up a hand to forestall any interruptions. "Additionally, if we truly believe this to be the case, we can use the knowledge to our advantage."

"And how would we do that?" Sir Barnes frowned, failing to see how leaving the issue unresolved could aid them.

Gilan was the one who answered, looking up with a smile. "I have an idea."

* * *

"What do you mean ' _he's not dead_ '?" Damara hissed.

The two initiates found themselves once more in the narrow alley behind the armory. It was turning into a reliable meeting point; not prevalent enough to attract undue attention, and not secluded enough to warrant suspicion. The Expendable positioned himself at the corner of the stone building, near enough to be within range if they needed backup while providing the perfect vantage to observe anyone who may be approaching.

Damara was still speaking, a tone of overwhelming frustration cutting through her clam mannerism. "You had _one_ job, Wulver and yet somehow you still manage to fail-"

"It was that damned cloak." Wulver recalled how the dappled pattern had muddled his vision enough for him to be slightly off his mark. "I just barely missed the vitals-"

"Blaming your failure on a piece of cloth, now?" The girl scoffed.

"No, I-"

"You ruined a perfect opportunity. Everything was in place, every detail was ironed out, every possibility accounted for, and you-"

Wulver tuned out Damara's lengthened rant of his incompetence, instead thinking back to the battle. He had stabbed the ranger in the side, felt the blade sink deep into the flesh of his abdomen, watched the blood seep from the wound and coat the snowy ground. And then he had heard hooves. Looking up from his mark, the Blade initiate had seen the rapid approach of a man seated astride a similar shaggy horse. The man fired his bow to the north, attention diverted for now. Wanting to remain anonymous, Wulver had quickly retreated, losing himself in the chaos of the fight.

The ranger should have died.

But he hadn't. Mortally wounded, the ranger had been rushed to the infirmary inside Macindaw where he now lie, in critical condition. Wulver had watched from afar as the medics managed to stabilize the man, the oldest healer telling the younger medics to tend to the other patients as 'Meralon will not wake for some time'. The Blade initiate had not risked getting closer to his mark, the medical ward was teeming with too much activity and he was sure to be spotted. Instead, he retreated, finding Damara and pulling her behind the armory to explain what he had seen. And now-

"-now I have to clean up your mess." The irate girl finished, glaring at him. She said the last part of her sentence with confidence. A smugness that was present in all Cloak initiates even after a short period of training, as if they were a puppet master in control of every possible string.

But even strings could be cut with a sharp Blade. Wulver met her stare with narrowed eyes of his own, seeing a flaw in the girls way of thinking. "If you kill the mark now you'll only raise suspicion in the eyes of the other ranger."

"The other _two_ rangers, you mean." Damara corrected. At Wulvers look of incomprehension the girl sighed. "The man with the peg leg, I heard tell from a reliable source that he's a ranger as well."

"How many of them are there?" Wulver wondered aloud.

"The total doesn't matter, what _matters_ are the ones interfering with our allies operation." Damara waved aside his concern. "What _matters_ is if the mark saw you."

" _If he saw me_?" Wulver parroted with a scoff. "These ignorant Araluens have yet to even notice my presence. Twice now, they have allowed me to enter through their gate and mingle inside their stronghold. Yet you concern yourself with the fact that one man at death's door may have seen me?"

"Yes." Cobalt eyes stared into his own. "When you stabbed Meralon did he see you? Would he remember you if he woke up?"

Wulver recalled the moment with a frown as he understood where Damara's reasoning was headed. _Would he recognize my face if he saw it again?_ "I don't know." The Blade initiate said truthfully. "It is possible."

Damara nodded, her mind resolved. "Then he must never wake up."

"How?" Wulver wanted to know. "How are you planning to end him in the middle of the enemy camp?"

Damara just smiled at him. It was the smile of a wolf. "I'll just have to be discreet."

* * *

 _ **Fin! Thanks for reading!**_

 ** _TO ALL READERS: Thank you for your continued patience._** _ **I am so sorry. Honest. Part of the delay was due to me being out of country, but- to be completely honest- I was mostly stuck on how to proceed. I was at a loss as to what our characters would do in this predicament. I found that I didn't have a plan on how to get them out of the predicament I put them in.**_

 _ **I recently broke through the block and now have a plan for upcoming chapters so my posts should be getting back on some kind of schedule after this weekend. I will be splitting my time between my two main fanfiction stories (PJO/TKC and RA) as well as preparing for the upcoming fall semester. As such the time between my regular posts may need to be stretched to two week intervals. Again, I apologize. I ask for your continued patience and hope you cotinue to be amazingly awesome readers :)**_

 _ **Final things:**_

 _ **First, to Guest (Cass): Thank you for the multiple (and I mean MULTIPLE) reviews! Each one made me smile and I loved reading your reactions to each chapter, knowing that you still had many more to read. So, for one, no. Not the Brom from Eragon, although I may have been inspired by his appearance from the movie, tbh. As for why I would leave you at a cliffhanger... it's just how we writers roll. Gotta keep 'em wanting more ;) I have read the Brotherband Chronicles, although I have not read them all. I stopped at Slaves of Scorro due to a busy schedule and other interests that were more pressing. And haha, quite possibly. Thorn may well be the inspiration for that song. Thank you for your support. (And yes, I can see your reviews even though you are a Guest). You may write Hamilton lyrics in your review anytime, I am a HUGE fan of the show (although I will ask you include something pertaining to the story in the review as well ;). Yes I will read a review even if I have to translate it, there's a helpful little button at the top of the fanfiction website that does that for me. I have not read the novel Scarlet nor the Luner Chronicles. And thank you for the compliments. If you've read this far I hope you enjoy this chapter as well. Words cannot describe how ecstatic I was to read your reviews, thank you so much.**_

 _ **Lastly, to ByTheOldOak: Thank you! I'm glad you liked the bit about Broms backstory. I was hesitant to write it because I wasn't sure how the readers would respond. Yes, Berrigan seems to be in for the long haul. Meralon still isn't out of the woods yet, but he's hanging in there. And of course Gilan would be concerned about a fellow ranger (even one as prickly as Meralon). And yes, Gilan seems to be catching on. I wonder what will happen if he finds out? Your guess is as good as mine. Thank you for such a detailed review! Please continue to enjoy this story :)**_

 _ **As always, please review and critique, rant and rave in the comment box below. Even negative feedback is motivation for me to write and post at a faster pace. I only ask that you do not post spam reviews. I got a weird review from a guest named wilfred and had to go through the process of deleting it because the review had nothing to do with the story in any context.**_

 ** _See you next time!_**

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


	22. Plan B, C, and D

_**Hello readers!**_

 _ **I'm Back! And I am so so SO sorry for the inexcusably long wait.**_

 _ **So, quick shoutouts before we get to story, I'll leave my notes at the bottom of this chapter.**_

 _ **Shoutouts to: Saphirabrightscale, Artemi7, ArtShi, and elixanne for following and favoriting this story :)**_

 _ **Shoutout to 94 for following as well :D**_

 _ **Alright, that's that, and now time for story! Please enjoy the 22nd installment of the Rangers Apprentice Fanfiction: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_

* * *

"Are you sure this will work?" Sir Barnes asked as they exited the medical tent.

Gilan looked over at the Macindaw garrison commander, seeing doubt written clearly on the older man's features. It was the same expression worn by Lord Orman and Sir Wallace less than an hour ago back in the study; Berrigan having been the only occupant who seemed to approve. The retired ranger smiling as Gilan had detailed his plan.

"Not to appear disrespectful," Sir Barnes continued, having taken the rangers silence in a negative light. "But how do you know we can trust him?"

Gilan waited until they were within the relative privacy of the tower keep before responding. "It's simple logic, really. He wasn't at Macindaw at the time of the announcement, and therefore can't be the plant."

"Well, yes, but doesn't that same logic also apply to Sir Wallace?" The garrison commander pointed out as they mounted the stairs towards Lord Orman's room.

"True." The ranger dipped his head in acknowledgement of the point. "However, Sir Wallace is an Araluen Knight. The refugees are more likely to take his words as a command, not speculation. Fact as opposed to rumor."

"And what difference does that make?"

 _It makes all the difference in the world,_ Gilan thought to himself as they reached their destination, pushing past the guarded oaken doors and into the small study. Berrigan and Sir Wallace looked up from their musings, Lord Orman standing from his straight backed chair, a question in all of their eyes.

Gilan tipped his head in greeting before answering the unspoken query. "It is done, my lord. We now need only wait and observe."

Shoulders sagging in a visible show of relief, Lord Orman sank back into the chair. "Very good. Then all that remains is to discuss who shall be joining the squadrons on their venture."

"I will go with my men, my lord." Sir Barnes declared, snapping to attention.

The young ranger had expected as such from the proud commander. From what he'd seen, Sir Barnes held his knights in high regard; and rightfully so. Gilan had been to the training grounds the other day, taking stock of their resources for the coming battle, and had observed the disciplined warriors. While not as skilled as those chosen to be in the king's personal army, Macindaw's fighting force was nothing to scoff at.

Gilan inwardly grimaced: For what the younger ranger was about to suggest, it would be seen as an insult to the garrison knights. "In order for this tactic to be successful, we must appear to have dispatched our stronger forces." He commented. "Sir Wallace should lead them."

As anticipated, Sir Barnes bristled with indignation at the claim.

"No one is suggesting your men are incapable, Sir Barnes." Gilan said, having only paused briefly- continuing his train of thought before the Garrison Commander had a chance to object. "But to the general populous, the Araluen Knights are viewed as elites and experts."

Sir Wallace snorted. "A gross exaggeration. My men are plenty capable, but not as infallible as people make them out to be."

"All legends tend to be romanticized." Berrigan mused with a tilt of acknowledgement, picking up where Gilan had left off. "Once they reach the rendezvous point it becomes a waiting game. Sir Barnes will be needed here assisting with fortifications. Your insight into the layout of the land surrounding Macindaw will be an invaluable asset in tactics meetings." The minstrel explained, turning to Lord Orman. "I'll can assist the first wave."

But Gilan shook his head. "I'll need you here with me, planning contingencies."

"You think something will go wrong with this plan of yours?" Lord Orman frowned.

"A wise man once told me that you should always expect things to go wrong. That way if it does, you're not surprised."

"A wise man, huh?" Berrigan raised an eyebrow, smirking at the younger ranger. "Your old master would be flattered by the praise."

Gilan sent a quick grin in the direction of the retired ranger. "I'll deny ever admitting that." The smile faded. "Besides, there's something else that's been troubling me. While we were down in the medical bay, Malcolm spoke with me about the wound Ranger Meralon sustained during the skirmish."

Lord Orman raised his eyes from the map on the table, concern plastered across his expression as he gently asked, "How fares the ranger?"

"Alive, but he's not out of the woods yet." Was Gilan's grim reply, "Malcolm believes that if he can keep the wound from getting infected he has a good chance of making a complete recovery… with time."

The young ranger saw relief wash over everyone's face at the news. Gilan only wished what he was about to say wouldn't diminish that hope.

"Initially, from the way Berrigan described the confrontation, the healer thought it to be an arrow wound. But upon closer inspection, Malcolm discovered that the gash was far too wide for an arrow shaft."

"What do you mean?" Sir Wallace asked, brow creasing in confusion.

"Arrow wounds are simple punctures." Gilan explained. "Depending on the force behind the initial impact, they can be deep, but all arrows are essentially sharpened sticks. The gash splitting Meralon torso was much too wide to be caused by a simple puncture weapon."

The Garrison Commander frowned. "What are you insinuating?"

Gilan looked up holding the gaze of all five assembled men for a long moment before speaking. "Malcolm thinks someone tried to assassinate Meralon during the raid."

There was a moment of shocked silence.

"Assassination?" Lord Orman rubbed a hand down his paling face. "Are you sure?"

"Nothing is certain yet, my lord." Gilan said. "But all accounts of the battle place Meralon at the head of the caravan, a good distance away from either front. If there is indeed a spy, and if Malcolm's diagnosis of the wound is correct, it's not much of a stretch to assume the inside man attempted to rid us of a commanding officer."

"My god…" Berrigan breathed, closing his eyes as he realized the full implications of the discovery. "If Meralon was an intentional target, then that means everyone in this room has a mark on their backs."

Damara made the rounds in the mess hall, once again finding herself in the role of a serving girl. The kitchens had been working overtime, experiencing a lack of helpers as a good portion of the serving staff had been directed to assist with the medical unit: boiling bandages and cleaning equipment for the healers. Any able-bodied youngster not yet old enough to fight was conscripted to work for the chefs, assisting in meal preparation and distribution.

Despite her lack of enthusiasm, Damara had to admit the facade suited her well. Posing as a serving wench was one of the easiest ways to gain information. Not reliable information. But rumors and whispers of secrets permeated every taphouse. Most of the talk tonight wasn't anything the girl didn't already know. Knights recalled the skirmish with grim fascination, a few speculating as to how things might have ended had it not been for the Araluen Knights timely rescue. Damara found herself inwardly grimacing at the reminder of the failure. The unexpected arrival of the Araluen cavalry was a kink in the otherwise flawless plan.

She would not be so careless with her current objective.

As Damara swept her way to a table waiting to be bussed, her mind filed through all of the information she'd gathered earlier that day as she surveyed the medical ward. It was the fourth time she'd reviewed the knowledge, and she was no closer to finding a way to kill the ranger.

Correction, she knew of all the potential ways _to_ accomplish such a feat- really, the possibilities were endless. Damara could tamper with the medicinal herbs that the healers used so that their treatment would only cause the wounded ranger's demise. Or she could reopen the wound, let the man bleed out overnight. She could even poison his food and no one would be any the wiser. Just another casualty of the skirmish that couldn't be saved with medicine. The problem wasn't with how she could _kill_ the ranger- Damara had complete creative freedom when it came to that aspect.

No, the issue arose with how to do so without getting _caught_. Without being _seen_. While subterfuge and unseen movement were her speciality, even Damara had to admit that her ability to do so in an area constantly bathed in torchlight and continuously monitored, day and night, by healers scurrying about as they tended to the wounded would be difficult. It would be her greatest challenge yet.

But the cloak initiate was determined to succeed.

So she had watched and waited. Damara hung around the medical tent all day, pretending to be delivering fresh supplies to the healers or administering food and water to the injured. She observed the haphazard, energetic movements of the medics as they roved from cot to cot, performing their duties vigilantly.

There was no rhyme or reason to their rounds. No predictable pattern.

It was infuriating.

"Girl! Go get me some more plates from the back." The head chef called, dragging Damara from her musings. With a nod, the girl moved to complete the task, returning with a stack of dishes. As she made her way to the kitchens, her ears picked up bits of clipped conversations.

"-couldn't believe it myself when I saw those arrows raining down-"

"-anoth'r! I'm not- hic- tha' drunk-"

"-put me on the graveyard shift. Just you watch-"

"-Wallace's leaving tomorrow, with his entire platoon from what I hear."

Damara nearly lost her hold on the plates as she came to an abrupt stop, cobalt eyes snapping over to the table.

"Now why 'n the hell would Lord Orman send them away?" A garrison knight who'd clearly had one too many was saying. "Doesn't he know we need all th' help we can get?"

The man sitting across from him, a more sober soldier, shook his head. "I think that's why he's letting e'em leave. They're supposed to be some sort of escort for a relief force from Caraway."

"Tch-" The man went to take a swig from his empty mug, looking perplexed for a moment before frowning at the lack of ale. Huffing, the knight plunked the mug back onto the table. "If the relief force can' make it up 'ere on their own what good does tha' do us when they get here? 'Bout as useful as a bunch o' battleschool trainees if y'ask me."

"Yes, indeed," Soldier number two smiled. " We're all very lucky Lord Orman hasn't asked your drunken ass what it thinks- we'd be scrubbing the chamber pots for weeks."

"Shaddup." Soldier one grumbled without much heat.

"Girl! Where're those plates?"

Damara's head snapped over to the head chef and bit back a retort as she made her way back to the kitchens. She dumped the stack on the counter and left, mind reeling as she processed the information she'd overheard.

The Araluen Knights were departing soon to go get reinforcements, which was bad- but also good. Damara bit her lip as she walked through the shadows. Having made the trek from Caraway herself, the girl knew that the knights would be gone for the better portion of a week before returning- and that was if they moved quickly. And if they managed to bring back enough help, their combined forces would potentially outnumber the Scotti clans three to one.

However, it would also be a week in which Macindaw would be vulnerable to attack. Damara breathed out slowly, her warm breath misting in the frigid air, the full importance of what she'd discovered hitting her like a wave: this was their chance the sieze the stronghold.

By the time Brom left his brother's bedside and made his way over to the mess hall, the rumor of the Araluen Knight's departure had spread through the garrison faster than ivy growing up an evergreen. The minstrel smiled inwardly as he was handed a plate of food, he'd succeeded, then.

Initially, the musician had been confused by the young ranger's request. Spread a rumor? Not that it was a difficult request to comply with, but Brom's curiosity had been peaked from the moment Gilan came to him in the medical tent.

" _I need you to do something for me, but you can't ask why."_

 _Brom looked over at his former travelling companion with a frown. The minstrel had just come back from stretching his legs, ready to resume his vigil at Alforic's bedside where the other Celt was resting. Gilan, and an important looking knight, had just finished conversing with the healer Malcolm before approaching him._

" _Will you help me?" The ranger inquired again at Brom's silence._

 _The musician shrugged his shoulders, "That depends on what you ask of me."_

" _I need you to spread the rumor that Sir Wallace and the Araluen Knights are departing tomorrow morning." Gilan's voice had dropped to a whisper._

 _Brom blinked, more than confused at the request. "...Why?"_

 _The young man's lips pressed together, his eyes flicking over as a Marshwood villager shuffled by. "That's not important. Will you do it?"_

 _A moment of hesitation. Then a nod. "I'll do it."_

 _Gilan breathed out in a sigh, his shoulders relaxing._

" _Under one condition." Brom added, having only paused briefly. The ranger looked at him expectantly. "When this is all over, you tell me a story- a good story, mind, not one of those flimsy war stories they sing so often about."_

 _Gilan's lips quirked up in a smile. "Deal."_

* * *

 ** _And there we go! The climax is approaching!_**

 ** _So, authors notes: I hate endings. Like, I really hate them with a passion. So when I realized that this story is getting close to it's conclusion (but still like 10 chapters away) I lost the excited energy I'd had when I began writing this. And for that, I apologize. Because I hate when authors leave an unfinished story and I never want y'all to think I won't finish this._**

 ** _And with that, allow me to give a HUGE thanks to all of those who reviewed and commented- seeing that people enjoyed the story was amazing motivation to not give up and to push through any writer's blocks I came to._**

 ** _Thank you all :D_**

 ** _Final things:_**

 ** _First, to AnonyMoose: Thank you for the review! It'll be interesting to see how Damara and Gilan's subterfuge plays out. Sorry for the extended delay- I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)_**

 _ **Next, to ByTheOldOak: Gilan definitely has a counter move in mind- let's see if it works ;) Thanks for the review!**_

 _ **To Fiction is Truth: 8 reviews! Wow, thank you :) I'd forgotten about the 'one riot, one ranger' saying. And yup! Damara is a pro when it comes to hypnosis. As for Halt's wisdom/sarcasm- they're basically one and the same ;P Thanks for your support! I hope you enjoyed this update.**_

 _ **To Artemi7: Thank you for the compliment! I hope you can forgive the delay.**_

 _ **To Morgan: I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far :) Thanks for leaving a comment!**_

 _ **To Ranger-Corpses: 16 reviews! Holy cow! T-Thanks so much :D I wish I was a wizard- then I could magically spell-check my stories ;) Unfortunately no, no Tennyson here- this story takes place while he's over in Hibernia. I loved reading your comments as they came and knowing that there was still more for you to read. Thank you. Those reviews gave me so much motivation to start writing this again- gave me the drive to not give up on this fanfic. So thanks :) Anyone who wants to see this through should give you a big hug. I hope you enjoyed this chapter too! :D**_

 _ **To elixanne: You found this binge-read worthy?! Thank you for that compliment :) I hope you can forgive the delay.**_

 _ **That's all for today folks, again, I apologize for the hiatus. I'll be working more on this story in the future so updates should be every few weeks (school permitting).**_

 _ **As always, feel free to review and comment down below!**_

 _ **Until next time,**_

 _ **-Ardoa88**_


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